Jottings from a Doctor's Journal
by charleygirl
Summary: The incidents and conversations that Watson doesn't include in his accounts.
1. Sticks and Stones

As my muse is being less than cooperative with plots for longer stories at the moment, I've decided to take the opportunity to collect those scenes and fragments which are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs, and which don't fit anywhere else.

The first is inspired by an incident at work yesterday, when a customer referred to me to a colleague as 'peculiar' within my hearing. I dashed this little scene off to try and control my own anger.

**Usual disclaimer:** None of this belongs to me, it's all ACD's.

* * *

**STICKS AND STONES**

"Peculiar. That's what he said?"

Holmes nodded, curling up in his chair. "The very word." He glanced up at me, quite suddenly, and I saw something very unusual in his eyes: vulnerability. To my amazement I realised that he had actually been hurt by the insult. "Watson, do you think me…peculiar? Tell me honestly, please, I must know."

I hesitated, to my shame, for in truth some of his habits and behaviour could indeed be termed so. Though I would never say as much to him, I could in some way understand how an outsider to our life might view such oddities as the patriotic VR in neat bullet holes which still adorned our wall despite Mrs Hudson's attempts to paper over it, or the unanswered correspondence which remained transfixed to the increasingly battered mantelpiece with a knife. These and other features which had become commonplace to me over the years would be regarded as shocking and possibly as evidence of a disordered mind by anyone not familiar with the nuances of life with the world's only private consulting detective.

My delay in answering had however a startling effect upon my friend, for he caught hold of my arm. "You do!" he exclaimed, starting upwards with eyes wide, having taken my consideration as evidence that I agreed with his unnamed client's damning opinion. "You think the same as he!"

"No, no!" I cried, placing my hand on his shoulder and gently pushing him back down into his seat. Never had I seen him so agitated over something he would usually deem 'a trifle'. "No, I don't think that at all. How could you ever think that I would?"

"You promise me that? You are not merely humouring me?" He was so desperate for reassurance that it struck at my heart. Holmes had always claimed to be a brain without a heart, but in truth I never truly believed that. At times I saw the emotion he kept hidden so well behind that mask; and I saw that he was no different to the rest of us. He could be hurt, just like anyone else. One little word, uttered in contempt, could cut him to the quick.

"Of course not, my dear fellow," I assured him. "You are eccentric, certainly, and often unbearable, but never, ever peculiar."

He seemed to relax slightly, and, after a moment or two, gave me his familiar twitch of a smile. "Thank you, Watson."

"Arrogant, infuriating, careless," I continued, smiling back as I patted his shoulder and sank into my own chair on the opposite side of the hearth, "but I own that I myself very much prefer 'unique'."


	2. Gone Fishing

Another work-inspired piece. I'm convinced I had a guy who was trying to get information about the state of the company from me yesterday afternoon. He was far too tenacious for it to have been a casual conversation...

* * *

**GONE FISHING**

"I absolutely do not believe it!" I exclaimed as I reached the sitting room. The door slammed satisfyingly behind me, rattling my picture of General Gordon which hung on the adjoining wall. He gazed at me a little reproachfully as he swung back and forth, but I was too agitated at that moment to bother doing anything about it.

Holmes lowered _The Times_ to look at me in some surprise. "Believe what, my dear fellow?"

"That so-called colleague of mine from the hospital – the one who was sounding me out about some work – is a journalist! There was no locum position; he spent the time fishing for information!"

"Information about what, precisely?"

"You!" I thundered, my anger propelling me to stalk the rug for a few moments before falling into my chair. "The man had the infernal cheek to start questioning me – in a roundabout fashion at first, naturally – about your whereabouts for the last three years. He let the cat out of the bag when he actually asked whether you deliberately set out to defraud the general public by pretending to be dead!"

Holmes, while I was speaking, reached into his pocket for his silver cigarette case and offered it to me. I took one almost mechanically and he struck a match to light it, all without saying a word. I took a lungful of smoke, grateful for the calming effect of the nicotine. Such prying into my friend's affairs, and in so underhand a manner, had infuriated me more than anything had in a long while.

"It is the betrayal which hurts the most," I said eventually, when we had been sitting in companionable silence for some minutes. "The fellow abused my trust shockingly."

"I take it that he got nothing from you?" Holmes asked.

"Of course! Once I realised his game I sent him packing. I made a promise to you - the truth will out if you ever agree to my publishing again, and not before."

"Faithful Watson. It seems to me that your journalistic acquaintance is not much of a fisherman – I believe that in order to catch a fish, one must successfully bait the hook." My friend smiled around the stem of his pipe and took up his newspaper once more. "He will have to put you down as the one that got away."


	3. Anything You Can Do

Many thanks for the reviews, folks! Glad you're enjoying these so far. :)

* * *

**ANYTHING YOU CAN DO**

"A lost cat, one sister wishing to disinherit another over the loss of a Chinese vase, a dispute between two fishmongers and the theft of a pair of false teeth," said Holmes, arching an eyebrow in my direction, his expression practically shouting 'beat that if you can'.

"An extreme case of haemorrhoids, three hypochondriacs and a surgery half-full with victims of the winter vomiting bug," I countered. "I think that my bad day wins hands down."

He waved a dismissive hand. "I find that hard to believe. Such pygmies of triviality as I have had to deal with - "

"I defy you to spend an hour in my surgery with Mrs Harbottle and her imagined list of complaints without entirely losing the will to live."

"Were I in your place I should be rid of the woman. Simply tell her that her ailments are all in the mind," said Holmes firmly. "Really, Watson, you must put your foot down to stop these malingerers from wasting your time. I should."

I had to laugh, knowing it to be the exact and literal truth. "Exactly. And that is why I am the doctor and you are the detective. With a bedside manner as abominable as yours I should be without patients inside a week!"

He sniffed, drawing up his knees and wrapping his thin arms around them. Smoke wreathed his head from the pipe which was clamped between his teeth. "A little more honesty in the medical profession would not go amiss. If one has some incurable disease it would be as well to be told all the facts at the outset so that one would know what to expect."

"There are ways and means of informing patients of such a prognosis," I said. "Launching into the subject with all the tact and subtlety of a sledgehammer is not one of them!"

Holmes shrugged. "You are entitled to your own opinion, naturally. However, the offer of my services is there should you ever wish to avail yourself of them. I am sure an encounter with Mrs Harbottle would be most diverting."

I settled back in my chair, imagining the reaction of the large and fussy lady being informed quite bluntly that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her that a little fresh air and exercise would not cure. The resulting picture was an immensely entertaining one.

"I promise you, Holmes," I said as I reached for my pipe and tobacco pouch, "should I ever decide to scare away my income, you will be the first to know."


	4. No Leg To Stand On

**Author's Note:** This one is a fragment from a longer fic that wasn't working. I've kept it because I like the dialogue and the images of Holmes's 'accident'.

* * *

**NO LEG TO STAND ON**

Sherlock Holmes sat at the old deal table, surrounded by his chemical apparatus. One long-fingered hand held a test tube poised above the beaker that bubbled away over the Bunsen burner, concentration written in every line of his face. It was quite clear that this was a crucial moment.

Unfortunately, said moment happened to coincide with my finishing the article in _The Lancet_ which had been consuming my attention for the last hour. I folded the periodical, got to my feet and announced, "It's time I had a look at that ankle of yours."

Behind me glass clinked against glass, followed by a puff of foul-smelling smoke and several muttered curses. I turned just as Holmes raised his head to glare at me from beneath hooded lids. "Watson, your timing is atrocious!" he snapped. "You have just ruined the reaction! Could we not save the doctoring for a more opportune moment?"

"No, we could not," I said, ignoring the venom directed at me. "I am going out in a moment and as you have not let me near you all morning I wish to check on it before I leave."

My friend sighed impatiently and pushed back his chair, reaching for the silver-topped walking stick which was propped against the table at his side. "You are fussing over nothing. It is merely a sprained ankle."

"It was very nearly a broken ankle. A bad sprain can be just as painful." I made to take his elbow, but he shook me off and hobbled to the sofa unaided, where he fell heavily against the cushions. "Has the swelling begun to subside?"

"As I have not looked at it myself, I really cannot say."

"I very much doubt it, since you will not obey my orders to keep your weight off it," I scolded, unwrapping the neat bandaging which I had wound round the offending limb the day before. "And don't try to tell me that it doesn't hurt – your face is quite eloquent upon the subject."

Holmes shot me another glare, before the expression crumpled into a wince of discomfort. The bandage removed, I could see the damage in all its glory: his ankle and the top of his foot were a brilliant rainbow of bruising, the whole still swollen and puffy despite having been strapped up. He would be confined to the sofa for at least a week. My heart sank at the prospect.

"Landscape gardeners," he muttered darkly. "Fancy leaving a ditch in such a position!"

I tried not to smile at the mention of his accident. "It was a ha-ha, Holmes. It had been there for over a hundred years to stop sheep straying onto the lawn. If you had not been so intent upon those footprints you would have seen it."

"Ha-ha. _Ha_!" He folded his arms and glowered. "I do not find it amusing in the least. And now, thanks to some horticultural designer's caprices, I shall be out of action for days. I should bring a case against him to compensate me for loss of earnings."

Now I really did have to laugh. "Only through the services of a medium," I said, and he glanced at me in surprise. "Capability Brown has been dead for nigh-on a century."

More grumbling ensued, most of which I could not catch, but which seemed to be directed at 'inconsiderate workmen dying and leaving others to suffer the consequences of their ridiculous notions'. I fetched fresh bandages and rebound the ankle, instructing him to call Mrs Hudson for some ice to reduce the swelling.

"I must make something of this unforeseen misfortune, Watson!" he exclaimed at last. "What have I gained?"

"A valuable lesson," I said, putting on my hat. "Next time, watch where you are going!"

* * *

_For those who may not be aware, a ha-ha is a sunken ditch around the perimeter of a lawn in a landscape garden, designed to be virtually invisible so as not to obstruct the view. Its name comes - apparently - from the surprised exclamations of walkers suddenly finding an obstacle in their way._


	5. Jack Frost Nipping at Your Nose

**JACK FROST NIPPING AT YOUR NOSE**

"Holmes, do you really think this is a good idea?" I asked as my friend opened the front door, allowing a blast of frigid air across the threshold.

"Watson, how can you ask such a question? We have been prisoners in this house for three days – we need air," Holmes replied firmly, pulling on his gloves.

"Yes, but is the risk of a broken leg really worth it? The pavements are all frozen solid!"

"Then we shall skate. I for one am willing to take a chance. Any more time spent indoors will see me in Bedlam." He grasped his stick, sniffed the air and ventured out, a silhouette against the white world beyond. After a moment's hesitation, I followed him.

The landscape beyond our door was quite breathtaking, and not just because of the bitter chill which robbed one of air the moment they inhaled. Baker Street was sparkling beneath a thick blanket of snow, a blanket which had so far barely been touched by either wheel or footprint, the muddy and defiled slush from the day before temporarily hidden from view by the fresh, pristine cloak. A few hardy souls besides ourselves had ventured out, but it seemed that otherwise London had yet to wake, brought to a grinding halt by the deep drifts which huddled up to houses and businesses. Up the street I could see the bookseller on the corner at work before his front door with a shovel; a muffled clopping sound announced the slow and cautious arrival of a cab, the horse taking careful steps upon the slippery ground. Both it seemed would be hoping for custom in vain.

I walked slowly, my old wounds disliking the cold, grateful for the added traction provided by my stick. Holmes, after skidding dangerously when he attempted his usual stride, had shifted to tread upon the powdery snow which lay at the edge of the pavement, moving through it with a kind of awkward, shuffling gait which I had to ignore for fear of laughing at him and raising his ire. He was prickly enough already after three days' incarceration in our rooms without my encouraging him.

In this fashion we made our gradual way up Baker Street and across the Marylebone Road without mishap, and together took a bracing turn about Regent's Park, where the paths had considerately been cleared by a boy with a broom. Groups of children whooped and ran in great clouds of shimmering droplets, taking full advantage of the weather and the brief respite for normality it had brought. Snowmen sprang up all over the park, of varying size and skill. Toboggans careered down any convenient incline, much to the delight of their riders, who inevitably ended up rolling in the ice and slush. It was truly a delightful scene.

After and hour of such amusement and exercise, however, my leg and shoulder had begun to throb most uncomfortably, and the biting wind had stung colour into even Holmes's pale cheeks. We headed for home, my limp becoming more pronounced the closer we came to Baker Street – eventually Holmes took my arm through his and allowed me to lean on him as we walked. It was precarious, to say the least, and more than once I fully expected us both to end up on the pavement in an undignified heap as he nearly lost his footing upon the slick ground.

Finally reaching the door of 221B had rarely been more of a relief. I sagged against the railings to catch my breath as my friend fumbled with cold-numbed fingers through his pockets for the key. Unfortunately his cry of triumph when it was located swiftly turned into a startled yelp of disgust as he turned the key in the lock with too much force and disturbed the snow that had gathered above on the lintel. It sailed downwards, landing upon his hat and shoulders with a fat 'plop', and sliding right down the back of his exposed neck as he bent his head towards the door.

This time I couldn't help it: I laughed. He squirmed frantically, but to no avail – the ice was making it inexorable way between his shoulder blades and down his spine, and no amount of frenzied twisting would dislodge it.

"Watson!" he exclaimed as he glanced up and saw me practically doubled over with mirth. "Watson, this is no laughing matter!"

"S-sorry…H-Holmes…" I managed to gasp out, the expression of sheer outrage on his face only making things worse. So overcome was I that I failed to notice the gradual shift from outrage to mischief until it was too late. I had barely straightened, wiping at my streaming eyes, before I felt the freezing impact of a handful of wet snow right in my mouth.

"Gah!" I spluttered, brushing away the remnants of the projectile, snowflakes clinging persistently to my moustache. "Why, you - "

Holmes, delighted, gave one of his characteristic barks of laughter, a grin splitting his wind-chapped face. "Oh, Watson – if you could only see yourself…!"

I was not about to let him get the better of me. "Right," I growled menacingly, reaching for the window sill behind me, "You asked for it…."

The lines were drawn, and battle commenced. Twenty minutes later we were cold and wet from head to foot and giggling like a couple of errant schoolboys. Mrs Hudson, alerted by the noise, opened the door to find us standing on the step looking as though we had been tumbling in the park with the children, shivering but inordinately pleased with ourselves. Horrified, she chased us indoors and up the stairs with strict instructions to change out of our sodden clothes at once.

"You'll both catch your death!" she exclaimed. "I don't know, grown men the pair of you! Ought to know better!"

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson," I said contritely, hearing Holmes snigger behind me. "It won't happen again."

The good lady had not missed the sound of my friend's amusement. She folded her arms and regarded us both disapprovingly. "It had better not, Doctor. It's just as well I made up the fire and took those warm towels up. You'll be needing them even more now. And don't drip on the hall carpet," she added as Holmes removed his hat, which still had snow upon the crown, "If I find a puddle of ice water anywhere I shall send you both to bed without supper!"

A threat indeed, and one that neither of us wished to put to the test.

* * *

_Snow has magical powers - it turns us all into big kids. :)_


	6. Simple Pleasures

_Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! :)_

_Another piece inspired by a real life situation. These are difficult times for many of us financially..._

**

* * *

****SIMPLE PLEASURES**

"Cash-flow crisis, Watson?" Sherlock Holmes asked with a raised eyebrow as he passed my desk to fetch his pipe from the rack on the mantelpiece.

In truth it was an elementary deduction. My accounts book was open before me, along with many sheets of figures which had begun as neat rows but degenerated into scribbles the more frustrated I became. My waste paper basket was overflowing onto the carpet. "Yes," I said shortly, reaching for a fresh sheet.

He sat down, and then turned to look at me, long arm resting across the back of his chair. "The horse did not win, I take it?"

For several moments I did not respond, intent upon my task. Eventually, however, his words penetrated my muddled brain and I glanced up in suprise. "How the devil did you know about that? I did not mention it - "

"No, but you saw Mr Atkins the other day and I know that he sometimes gives you a tip. As there was a horse running at Epsom called Doctor's Orders, I made the obvious connection."

"Of course." As always, it was so simple when he explained his reasoning. I sighed and sat back, letting my pencil fall onto the desk. "You are right – the horse came in tenth. I bet on it to win."

Holmes tsked and regarded me sympathetically. "My dear fellow, is money really so tight at present?"

"I fear so. Business is slack due to the time of year, and my pension is dwindling rapidly. I fear I will not be able to afford that holiday to Southsea I was looking forward to." I smiled ruefully, thinking with wistful nostalgia of the shingle and the promenade, of concerts on the pier.

He nodded, but said nothing. After my confession, silence reigned in the room for some time. I picked up my pencil once more and attempted yet again to make sense of the figures before me. Unsurprisingly, they did not change, and I was no better off than I had been on the five other occasions when I made the calculations. I massaged my temples, feeling a headache encroaching. Holmes lit his pipe and sat puffing away, clouds of blue smoke wreathing his head. At length, he removed the stem from his mouth, turned to me again and said, a little hesitantly,

"Watson, you know that if you are short of funds you have only to ask…that is, I have made a tidy sum from the recovery of Lady Farthingdale's locket, and I - "

"No." I held up a hand when he tried to protest, and added, "Thank you, Holmes, but it's really not necessary. Things will pick up. In the meantime I must take my pleasures more simply – enjoy Mrs Hudson's cooking rather than dinner at fancy restaurants, and evenings at home instead of the club. My purse will not run to playing billiards with Thurston at present, either."

He snorted. "That is no bad thing."

I shot him a warning glare. "Of course, that is if you do not mind having me around the place rather more often?"I asked.

For a moment he regarded his pipe before glancing up to meet my gaze. "Not in the least." He gave me one of those swift approximations of a smile that I knew so well. "I fear Goldini's will miss us if we are not to darken their door for some time."

I smiled back. "As soon as I am solvent again, we will try that new French place on the Strand. Agreed?"

Holmes threw his head back with a bark of laughter. "Oh, Watson, you will never be rich!"

It was true. Thoroughly tired of sums and figures, I closed my book, threw it into a drawer and stood up, stretching. Soon afterwards, Mrs Hudson arrived with dinner, and we feasted upon beef stew with dumplings followed by apple tart. Holmes had rediscovered his appetite and ate as heartily as I did myself. We chatted about the Farthingdale case and many other inconsequential topics, just enjoying each other's company.

Full and contented, I wandered to my armchair and settled there with a newspaper, while Holmes fetched his violin. Standing by the window, he tucked it under his chin and closed his eyes, drawing the bow gently across the strings. Soft, mournful music filled the room, and I reflected that perhaps the simple things in life were indeed the best after all.


	7. Play The Game

**PLAY THE GAME**

"A rugby match?"

I did not miss the incredulity in Holmes's tone as he stood in the doorway of my bedroom. My mind, however, was too occupied with the task of tracking down my old studded boots for me to do more than reply in the affirmative. Though they had not been worn in many a long year, I was sure that I had brought them with me when I took up residence in Baker Street and stored them somewhere just in case I might need them at some unspecified point in the future. As is usually the case when one has such virtuous intentions, when that moment came, I could not find the item I sought anywhere.

"You are surely not serious," Holmes said, and this time I did withdraw my head from beneath the bed, where I had been searching through my old army trunk.

"I am completely serious. It is for charity, and I feel honoured to be asked." In truth I did. My days at Blackheath were so long ago that I felt sure I had been quite forgotten. That this was evidently not the case brought a warm glow of satisfaction and pride, and I would not be so churlish as to turn down such a flattering request.

"Indeed. But, really, Watson…Are you quite sure that age and…injury have not in some way…diminished your skill?"

I had to laugh at his uncharacteristically hesitant concern for my welfare. "I hope I am not ready to be put out to grass just yet! Anyway, the match is merely a friendly."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "_Is_ there such a thing as a friendly rugby game?" he enquired.

I ignored the question and its implications, and sat back on my heels. "Actually, I had hoped that you might accompany me."

His face took on a look of abject horror at the suggestion. "Surely not to play…!"

My laughter bubbled up again at the thought of Holmes on a rugby pitch. The image was a delicious one, and it gave me some moments of amusement, much to his consternation. Eventually I sobered enough to put him out of his misery. "Forgive me, old man, but you're not exactly the right build for a scrum half."

"Thank God." Horror faded into relief. "Then exactly what does one do at such an event if one is not part of the team?"

"Well, accepted behaviour is to stand on the touchline and cheer your friend on," I said, climbing stiffly to my feet and wincing as I put my weight on my game leg. As I spoke I limped towards the door, intending to take my search to the attic. "Either that or take charge of the half-time oranges."

Holmes eyed my awkward gait sceptically. "I rather think in your case that bandages would be more appropriate."


	8. What's In A Name?

_Apologies for the lack of updates - real life has intruded over the past few days and made the muse go into hiding. Hopefully a trip to London at the weekend will get things moving again..._

* * *

**WHAT'S IN A NAME?**

Following Holmes's spectacularly sudden return from the dead, and when the decision had been made that I should sell my Kensington practice and move back to Baker Street, my friend was overtaken by a completely understandable zeal to see London and discover the changes that had been made in his absence. I was consequently dragged the length and breadth of the city, into odd corners and backstreets, the existence of which I was not even aware until that moment, accompanied by the enthusiastic and knowledgeable chatter of the man I had for three long, bleak years believed to have perished beneath the roiling waters of the Reichenbach Falls. It was a simple pleasure I had thought to never again experience, and I counted myself amongst the luckiest of men.

One morning, after a typically restrained reunion between Holmes and his brother Mycroft at the Diogenes Club, I proposed a drink and then luncheon at the Criterion – my own little marking of the occasion, for it had been my meeting with Stamford in the bar of that establishment which had sown the seeds of the long friendship which had just been rekindled.

We walked from Pall Mall, up St James's Street to Piccadilly, which was as thronged with traffic as ever, hansoms attempting to dodge between omnibuses and drays without tipping their fares into the road or running down brave pedestrians who took their lives in their hands by trying to cross the busy thoroughfare. We managed to reach the far side without sustaining serious injury, and I was about to enter the Criterion when I realised that Holmes was no longer with me. I retraced my steps to where he stood at the kerb staring across to the island in the middle of the road.

"What," he said slowly, pointing at the offending object with his stick, "in the world is _that_?"

I followed his gaze, and saw the relatively new – but by now quite familiar to me – statue, poised atop an elaborate fountain and firing an invisible arrow up Shaftesbury Avenue. It had been put up the previous year, and I momentarily forgot that Holmes would not have seen it before. Children were playing in the basin, splashing each other from the jets of water.

I cleared my throat. "Err…that is the Angel of Christian Charity, Holmes," I said, and he raised a sceptical eyebrow. Looking again at the naked, winged figure, posed like something from a Valentine card, I could suddenly understand why. As a memorial to Lord Shaftesbury it was unusual to say the least. "It is a new innovation – made from aluminium, I believe," I added, attempting to make the thing sound more attractive, and of possible interest to him. "They say it is the first statue of its kind in the world."

"Indeed," was his only comment, and he turned away, striding towards the entrance to the bar.

It was later, when we had finished our meal and sat back with coffee and cigars, that he mentioned the matter again.

"Angel of Christian Charity, my foot," he said, nodding in the statue's direction. "Before long the populace of London will have a new name for it, something much earthier and no doubt more appropriate."

I recalled his words some years down the line, when the true purpose of the statue had been almost forgotten and Sir Alfred Gilbert's creation had become universally known as Eros, god of love. Nicknames, once given, have an unfortunate habit of sticking. Just ask Shinwell Johnson…

* * *

_The famous statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus is in fact nothing of the sort. _

_It was designed by Sir Alfred Gilbert as the Angel of Christian Charity (or as wikipedia has it, the god Anteros), as the seventh Earl of Shaftesbury, for whom the fountain atop which he stands is a memorial, was a great philanthropist. As the statue was nude and carrying a bow, inhabitants of London naturally rechristened it Eros, and it is still called that - however erroneously - today. During WWII the statue was taken down, and when it was returned to its place ended up facing the wrong way. The excuse given was that it was meant to be facing in the direction of Shaftesbury's country seat in Dorset all along..._


	9. Take Good Care Of Yourself

**TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOURSELF**

"Holmes," I pleaded, watching helplessly as he paced the sitting room, "You _must_ go to bed. Your nerves will not stand for this."

"I can't! I can't, not until I have that telegram. I must have confirmation of McAndrew's guilt." He rounded the sofa, gnawing upon fingernails already bitten down to the quick. Still in his nightclothes, a blanket wrapped tightly round his shoulders, he crossed the rug with cold, bare feet, his slippers apparently forgotten. Above the cheerful plaid of the blanket his normally pale face was ashen grey, perspiration beading his forehead. The grey eyes were red-rimmed, sparkling with fever. Though he was running on the very last of his strength, teetering on the precipice between lucidity and delirium, he would not rest. I threatened and cajoled in vain – the case upon which he had been working when illness struck still consumed his mind to the exclusion of all else.

"Let Hopkins deal with it," I said, almost able to feel the heat radiating from him as he passed me. "Holmes, _please_ – you are going to make yourself seriously ill!"

He waved a hand sharply. "I cannot leave the Yard to deal with something so important. The matter is too delicate. How can you even suggest it?"

"Because I do not want to have to carry you to Charing Cross hospital," I muttered as, barely pausing even to turn, he began another circuit of the room. Feverish energy was keeping him going for now, but I foresaw a moment in the not too distant future when his overstretched nerves would finally give out. For a week he had barely eaten or slept, devoting every possible second to the unmasking of an aristocratic kidnapper. Already exhausted almost beyond endurance, this was more than even his iron constitution would be able to stand. I wished that I could do something to prevent his imminent collapse, but he was as stubborn as a mule, and masterful to a fault. There was no way that I could hope to avoid the inevitable.

The minutes ticked past, and after another hour of watching his restless and increasingly erratic perambulations I could take no more. Deliberately I planted myself in his path, catching hold of his arms as he attempted to brush past me and continue on his way. He struggled, but the attempt was feeble – I realised quite suddenly that he was now only remaining upright with my support. He swayed, and I slipped my arm around him, leaning his shivering, sweat-drenched form against my shoulder. His fever was up, two hectic spots of colour flaring on his white cheeks. I pressed two fingers against his carotid artery to find that his pulse was racing away.

His strength finally spent, I all but carried him to his room and laid him gently down upon the bed. He gave an incoherent moan, and as I bent over him I could just make out a few words between laboured gasps for breath,

"…why…now, Watson? ...why…?"

There was no answer to that question beyond those I had given a hundred times before. I sighed, and drew the blankets over him. "My dear fellow," I said softly, "Why do you always do this to yourself?"

He did not respond, barely aware now of anything around him. I informed Mrs Hudson that any telegram from France was to be forwarded to Inspector Hopkins at Scotland Yard, and dutifully went to fetch my medical bag in preparation for a very familiar vigil.

Try as I might, I could never convince Holmes that his body needed care, that it could not be regarded as some indestructible container for his genius. Time and again he would wilfully ignore illness and injury as though they were mere inconveniences to be brushed aside and forgotten. In the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the investigation, when his mind was operating at its highest level, he would run his body into the ground. As a doctor it was frustrating, maddening; as a friend, it was heartbreaking to watch.

All through that evening I sat beside his bed, laying cool cloths on his brow and listening to his delirious ramblings. By morning he was sleeping, the fever thankfully broken and his shattered nerves finally getting the rest they needed. While Holmes lay wrapped in peaceful slumber, I sat slumped in a chair, rubbing a weary hand over my unshaven chin.

So many times it had come to this. I lost count of the nights I spent at his side, nursing him through illness and nightmares, many of them occasions he would not even remember. One day…one day I may finally make him realise that though his health might matter little to him, to others it means a great deal, and that he should take more care of himself for their sake if not for his own.

I only hope that when the moment comes it will not be too late.


	10. Bad Timing

_I'm so glad that everyone is still enjoying these. I'm certainly enjoying writing them. :)_

* * *

**BAD TIMING**

"I'm sorry, Watson, truly I am."

I busied myself with checking the bandage. "I know you are, Holmes. Stop apologising – it wasn't your fault."

"Yes, but I've let you down. I know how much you were looking forward to the trip." He looked up at me, and for once I could see genuine remorse in his eyes. "You have every right to be angry. It is your birthday, after all."

"It doesn't matter. We'll go some other time." I made sure that his pupils were reacting properly to the light and went to put my bag away. Holmes's gaze followed me across the room from where he lay stretched out on the sofa, his brow swathed in linen like a wounded soldier. It was unusual for him to feel guilty about anything, but he was quite correct: I _had_ been looking forward to our holiday, very much so. The prospect of escaping from London - even with a reluctant detective in tow - had been the only thing that kept me going through a difficult few weeks. And now our plans would have to be put on hold because of a silly accident.

The bags were packed and at the door – we would have left the next morning on an early train from Waterloo, bound for the sea air of Southsea, had it not been for Holmes's suggestion that we take an evening constitutional through Regent's Park. A group of lads playing an impromptu game of cricket hit a ball wide, and the projectile had the unfortunate fate of striking my friend square on the forehead, felling him like a tree and knocking him cold for the next two hours. Two passing policemen helped me to get him back to Baker Street, and I spent the time alternately worrying about him and cursing our bad luck while I waited for him to come round.

He did so in due course with a pounding headache and double vision. This and his sudden voiding of the contents of his stomach into the nearby wastepaper basket told me with a sinking heart that he would be able to go nowhere for the next few days. My disappointment must have shown on my face, for once his vision cleared and his thoughts began to settle his first words to me were an apology. That in itself was another indication of his concussion, for an apology from the lips of Sherlock Holmes was a rare thing indeed. I immediately felt selfish for – albeit momentarily – mentally blaming him for the loss of my holiday.

"You could still go alone," he said now.

I carefully made sure that the contents of my bag were all present and correct, slowly closing the clasps. He was right, I _could_ still go alone. I could have my break, take some time to rest and relax and return a week later probably feeling better than I had in some time. I did have that option.

Stowing my bag away beneath my desk, I did not answer immediately. When I turned back to Holmes he was lying back against the cushions, his eyes closed and a frown of pain between his brows.

"I sincerely hope that those policemen whose help you enlisted can hold their tongues," he remarked, raising one heavy lid to glance at me. "If Lestrade finds out about this I will never live it down."

"I swore them to secrecy, I promise," I assured him.

He nodded, and then grimaced. I emptied the packet of painkiller I had retrieved into a glass of water and put it into his hand. He drained the glass without complaint and passed it back to me, massaging the uninjured side of his forehead with his long fingers.

"Will you go alone?" he asked after a pause, during which I was sure that he had fallen asleep. "You should not have your special day spoiled by something as ridiculous as this."

I sat back in my chair. "No, I should not," I agreed.

That one eye opened again, this time in surprise. "Then - "

"My dear fellow," I said with a smile, "why should you think I would prefer to spend that special day alone? We planned the trip together and we will make it together, as soon as you are recovered."

Relief flooded Holmes's pale face, and he let his head fall back against the cushions with a little too much force. Pain creased his aquiline features and he let out a moan.

"Besides," I added, getting up to go and ask Mrs Hudson for some ice, "how will I dine out on the story of Sherlock Holmes's fateful encounter with the cricket ball of doom if you are not there as proof?"

Holmes's response was entirely unprintable.


	11. Thicker Than Water

_Thank you all once again for the lovely reviews!_

_Not sure where this one came from, but I've been wanting to write a bit more about Holmes's family as mentioned in_ The Puzzle Box. :)

**

* * *

**

**THICKER THAN WATER**

"Sherlock Holmes, you are the most arrogant, insufferable man who ever lived!"

I could hear the raised voices the moment I opened the front door.

After helping me out of my coat, Mrs Hudson merely threw up her hands helplessly and rolled her eyes before vanishing back into her own domain, leaving me to climb the stairs and brave the battle raging above. I wondered what on earth could be happening. Holmes had been lamenting the lack of interest in the newspapers only that morning, hoping – though he would never admit it – for a visit from Lestrade or one of his colleagues. Though unemployed, he had yet to sink into one of his black moods, and I could not imagine that his temper had changed so dramatically in two hours as to make him pick fights with potential clients. Even Holmes had his limits.

As I reached the landing, it became obvious that the person doing all the shouting was a woman. Holmes, as far as I could tell, responded levelly and apparently calmly, his words inaudible to me through the thick wood of the sitting room door. This was unusual, as if one of our clients raised their voice to him he would often respond in kind, and certainly not with the thinly veiled amusement I could hear in his tone. Before I could properly consider whether I should intrude, the door flew open and I was almost run down by a hurrying figure. As I righted myself I looked up into a pair of eyes which held such a familiar expression that it took a moment for me to realised that they were blue rather than grey, and surrounded by a distinctly feminine face.

"I suppose you are his friend," the woman snapped, straightening. As I took a step back I could see that she was tall – an inch or so taller than myself in fact – and slender, dressed in a severe riding habit of dark green wool. Her fair hair, so pale as to be almost white, was twisted and looped and piled high on her head beneath a man's hat, which she wore with a little veil and tilted at a slightly rakish angle. I mentally placed her somewhere in middle-age, though her face was so sharply angled and her skin so taught that there could be no room for wrinkles to give any more of a clue to her years. Her thin mouth was pursed, her eyes narrowed in annoyance.

I inclined my head in response to her comment. "Doctor John Watson at your service, ma'am."

That penetrating, appraising gaze I had met a moment earlier ran me up and down, apparently cataloguing everything about me from the shine on my shoes to the manner in which I brushed my hair. It reminded me so much of Holmes that I was about to remark upon it when she said,

"Yes, I suppose you must be. You can tell him," she added before I could even open my mouth, "that I find his behaviour intolerable. I had hoped that he might have grown up a little since we last met, but I suppose that is too much to hope for."

"Madam - " I began in protest, but again she cut across me, turning her head and calling into the sitting room,

"Rest assured I shall be visiting Mycroft, and we shall see what _he_ has to say on the matter!"

With that, she brushed past me and continued on her way. A moment later the front door slammed, rattling the pictures on the stair wall. I heard Mrs Hudson give a cry of dismay as something hit the floor with a tinkling crash, and winced.

Entering our rooms, I was quite astonished to find that Holmes, rather than being in a state of consternation at this woman's actions, was standing before the fireplace and shaking with silent laughter.

"It is reassuring, is it not, Watson, that some things never change?" he asked when he became aware of my presence in the doorway. "My cousin Cressida's hot temper appears to be one of those immutable facts of life."

"Your _cousin_?" I exclaimed in surprise. "Good God, that woman is a relative?"

He nodded, reaching for his pipe. When he had it lit and drawing to his satisfaction he curled up in his armchair, a smile still touching his lips. "Oh, yes indeed. We have not met for more than twenty years, but she has not changed in the slightest."

"I remember now, you mentioned her when your late aunt sent you that infernal Chinese box at Christmas," I said, taking my seat opposite his. The puzzle contained within the gift had nearly driven us both to distraction.

He nodded. "She came to see me in connection with a small personal mystery. Typically, Cressida does not appreciate being foxed by something so trivial. She is an incredibly intelligent woman, but she will allow herself to become ruled by her passions, as you saw." An eyebrow arched, and he looked straight at me. "What did you think of her, Watson?"

I hesitated, not wishing to cause offence by insulting his family, but at the same not sure what I could say that would not be construed as such. Holmes naturally noticed my dilemma, and waved a hand.

"Speak frankly, my dear fellow, please! I respect your opinion in these matters."

I braced myself. "Well, I know she is your cousin, but - "

The eyebrow arched further.

"She is frightful, Holmes."

There was a long pause, during which I was convinced that I had done as I feared, and angered him. Therefore, I will admit that I started when he threw his head back with a great bark of amusement.

"_Ha_! Oh, indeed she is, Watson, indeed she is. I have always thought so, ever since I was first forced into her company at the age of six. A harridan very much in our great-aunt Sophronia's mould. We argued constantly."

I blinked. "Were you not once engaged to her?"

He cast me a sharp glance, as though irritated that I should remember such a thing. "Through no desire of my own and thankfully for only half a day, despite our aunt's machinations. My father swiftly put a stop to it, for which I will be eternally grateful. The thought of a life spent with Cressida is still one which can fill me with mortal dread." Holmes gave a theatrical shudder. "I have no idea how her poor husband has suffered her these last two decades. It is no wonder that he never sold his commission though she pestered him to do so. He must look forward to being posted away from home!"

I looked back towards the closed door, still not quite believing that I had at last met another member of the Holmes clan. It had been ten years before my friend even mentioned that he had a brother, and another five before I discovered that the family, rather than being virtually non-existent as I had supposed, was rather large, if unnaturally distant. Even after so long an acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, I could still not properly visualise the home from which he had come, or what his childhood had been like. I could barely even think of him as having been a child, for I could not really imagine him playing with toys or involved in childish pastimes. He seemed to have sprung into the world as a fully-formed adult. And yet here was a potential window into that world. It was tantalising, and I briefly considered trying to discover Cressida's address so that I might call and question her about my friend's background. The recollection of her brusque dismissal of me mere minutes earlier soon put an end to such ideas, however.

"Why did she come, if you have not spoken in so long?" I enquired, shaking out my newspaper.

Holmes sat cross-legged, feet tucked beneath him, placidly puffing on his pipe. "Her shoes have apparently been vanishing, only to reappear a day or so later in a completely different spot in the wardrobe to the one in which she left them."

I tried not to laugh. "A typically female problem, one would imagine. Why should she consult you over something so mundane?"

"Because she believes it to be inexplicable, and as she informed me, I have always enjoyed explaining such things. And so I did, though not to her satisfaction."

"And how did you explain it?"

"I suggested that she not take on new maids who have theatrical aspirations. The spot of greasepaint on the strap of the shoe she brought for my inspection may have been too small to see with the naked eye, but it told me everything I needed to know," Holmes replied. "If Cressida had _observed_ instead of continually trying to imagine a motive, she would have seen immediately what was happening. That is why no woman could ever hope to succeed in my profession – one must remove emotion from the equation entirely."

"Whatever happened to the instincts of a woman occasionally having more value than the deductions of an analytical reasoner?" I asked mischievously.

He grunted, and did not deign to reply.

"I take it that she did not like your conclusions, judging by her behaviour just now."

"In common with the rest of our family, she does not appreciate someone else being right. She will now burst in upon Mycroft, who will not enjoy the disruption." Holmes chuckled at the thought. "Oh, I would indeed like to be party to such a delicious encounter!"

There was a companionable silence between us for some time after that, until Mrs Hudson arrived to lay the table for luncheon. As she did, a thought struck me.

"Holmes," I said, and he lifted one eyelid a fraction to indicate that he had heard me. "Did you say that your cousin was an extremely intelligent woman?"

"I did, and it is the exact and literal truth. I would venture to say that her education surpasses even that of Mycroft, and definitely eclipses my own. Cressida has always taken far more interest in those matters you deem so important to life, my dear fellow, such as the fact that the earth revolves around the sun."

"Well, given those intellectual faculties, and your brief betrothal, have you never considered the benefits that such an alliance could bring to the cause of justice? Imagine employing Cressida's talents to one of your cases!"

He had sat listening to me without opening his eyes, and thus could not see the very broad grin which had crept across my face. His own features, from their previous expression of placid contentment, swiftly took on the aspect of a man about to be lead to the gallows. His face drained of colour, and his mouth fell open, releasing his pipe to fall into his lap. His eyes, when they stared at me, exhibited a look of abject horror.

"Good God, Watson, never suggest such a thing!" he exclaimed, leaping up to empty the still smouldering bowl into the fireplace before it could set his trousers alight. "To imagine that I…and she…"

"Just think of the super-intelligent children the two of you could have produced," I suggested, carefully moving out of range.

His eyes flashed and I believe I only narrowly escaped injury by Mrs Hudson's timely entry with a loaded tray. Needless to say, cousin Cressida was not mentioned again – at least, not until a short, terse and unrepeatable telegram arrived from Mycroft…


	12. Are We There Yet?

**ARE WE THERE YET?**

Sherlock Holmes lengthened his stride and swung round the corner, impatiently swiping at the railings on his left with his stick. A frown creased his face, as indeed it had done for the past twenty minutes, ever since he had decided to take a 'short cut' through the back alleys and mews of Mayfair.

"Holmes," I panted, trying to keep up with his furious pace despite the twinge in my leg, "How much further is this restaurant?"

He ignored me, increasing his speed once again; his head turning from side to side as though searching for something. For nearly an hour now we had been walking about the metropolis, first on a leisurely before-dinner stroll but latterly striding forth with great purpose as my friend insisted on taking me to a 'marvellous continental eatery' he had discovered a few weeks before. After such vigorous exercise I should have been content with a pie and a glass of beer in the nearest public house, but Holmes had decided and to the restaurant we would go.

That was, if we managed to find it.

"If I had known you were going to take me on a march I would have brought my knapsack and worn hiking boots," I remarked breathlessly, drawing level with him at last. "Where the devil is this establishment?"

No reply. Holmes's frown had deepened into something fast approaching a scowl. His gloved hand gripped the handle of his stick with far more force than was necessary as he drove the end into the pavement almost hard enough to chip the stone.

"Holmes?"

The stick rattled along another set of railings, setting my teeth on edge and making a maid who had stepped into the area below for some air start in surprise.

"_Holmes_!"

At last he glanced in my direction and growled, "What's wrong?"

I stopped, forcing him to stop as well. For a moment I stood rubbing at the stitch in my side, trying to get my breath back.

"I don't wish to complain, old man, given that this meal is meant to be your treat, but where exactly _is_ the restaurant?" I asked, straightening.

He glared at me for several seconds before his shoulders suddenly slumped in defeat. "I don't know," he said, to my astonishment.

"Don't know?" I repeated, not sure that I had heard him aright.

I had, however. "I thought it was just around the corner, but that was fifteen minutes ago and since then…well, I have been attempting to get my bearings."

"In other words," I said slowly, "you are lost."

There was silence for some time. Holmes looked at his shoes, tapping restlessly at his calf with his stick. Eventually he raised his head to meet my gaze, chin raised defiantly.

"Yes," he admitted. "My knowledge of London appears to have failed me on this occasion."

I will confess that I was quite staggered by this revelation, for Holmes knew the city intimately, its streets, alleys and lanes all meticulously committed to memory. Many was the time during the course of an investigation when I had owed my life to that knowledge, my friend's quick thinking causing him to take a turning not anticipated by our pursuers and thus lead us to safety. That he should be flummoxed by the location of a restaurant was so surprising that I remained speechless for several moments.

"Well," I said at last, when his obvious anger with himself threatened to sink into melancholy, "Even a genius makes mistakes sometimes, Holmes."

He nodded, and sighed. "Perhaps. But what are we to do now? I promised you dinner."

My stomach rumbled as if in reply, and I was suddenly reminded of the tavern we had passed not two streets back. A most delicious smell had been wafting from the doorway, a spicy, tantalising smell which had almost set my mouth watering as I chased after Holmes. A choice between a good drink and a plate of hearty fare and the prospect of another hour of traipsing through the cold, damp streets was no choice at all.

"Dinner we shall have," I said, turning and starting to lead the bemused detective back the way we had come, "and then you can put that great brain of yours to the task of finding the way home!"

* * *

_A/N: I spent some considerable time yesterday afternoon walking the length of Baker Street looking for a particular restaurant. Pinpointing it exactly on a map before I left the house would have been useful..._


	13. All Tied Up

**ALL TIED UP**

"Four and a half hours."

I tried to ignore the words, having heard them, with various alterations with regards to the time, repeatedly since I had woken from a chloroform-induced sleep. A few seconds of blessed silence passed, and then,

"Four. And a half. _Hours_."

"Holmes," I said between gritted teeth, "please stop saying that. I am begging you now, for the sake of our friendship."

He took no notice of me, too caught up in his own misery. "Is it actually possible for a man to die of boredom, Watson?"

"I should think so."

Though I could not see his face, back to back as we were, I could almost hear him raising his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. Particularly if one annoys one's companion so much that said companion has no option but to resort to murder in order to retain what little sanity he has left," I replied, with complete seriousness.

There was another pause, thankfully longer this time, and I turned my attention once again to the loosening of my bonds. I had made several such attempts during our incarceration, all to no avail. Our captors, well-versed in such matters, had made sure that the knots were as complex as possible. The rope bit into my wrists as I struggled, chafing against already raw skin.

"You will only make them tighter," Holmes said wearily, this time putting up with my shoulder blades digging into his back without complaint.

"Really? Well, I don't see you making any attempt to escape," I countered irritably. "What happened to that razor blade you keep hidden in your shirt cuff?"

He sighed. "It is there. Unfortunately, due to our current predicament I am unable to reach it. Being tied fast to a chair has the effect of limiting one's movement to a quite unbearable degree."

"I had noticed something of the sort myself. If we had only - "

"Damn and blast it all!" Holmes cried suddenly, startling me. "I am the greatest fool in Christendom. How could I have fallen into so obvious a trap? I fear your adding this case to your annals will do my reputation no favours. Caught like a fly in a web!"

"You weren't to know," I said, a little alarmed at this sudden change of mood. I hoped that he was not already starting to sink into one of his black moods –it would be more than I could cope with at that moment. "Lady Carmarthen is a splendid actress."

"Ha!" He snorted derisively. ""The ways of women. I am reminded once again why they should never be trusted."

"That is a little harsh, old man. You cannot judge their entire sex by one example."

"In this instance I feel I may be justified. Do you not agree?"

"We will be found," I said firmly, and felt his shoulders shift against mine as he tried to turn to look at me.

"By whom, precisely?" he enquired.

"By Lestrade, of course. He knew where we were going and what we intended to do."

Holmes gave a humourless bark of laughter. "You show remarkable faith in the ability of the denizens of the Yard to follow a trail when not specifically instructed to do so."

"That is unfair, Holmes. Lestrade will get there in the end, he just may take… rather longer than you would in the same situation," I replied with confidence I did not entirely feel when I managed to crane my neck round and glimpse the disbelieving expression on the detective's face.

There was another long pause.

"How long have we been here now?" I asked eventually. The light was getting rather the dim in the dusty little room.

"Nigh-on five hours. It must be nearly seven o'clock."

"And at what time did you intend to call in the Yard?"

"At ten."

"So, if he works out what has happened, Lestrade will not be here at least until then," I said, feeling my heart sink into my boots.

"That would seem to be an accurate assessment of the situation," Holmes agreed, in a tone laced with more than a little sarcasm. "Have you any idea as to how we are to pass the time until the cavalry arrives?"

The pause this time seemed to stretch on into eternity.

At last, seeing no alternative, I cleared my throat and began,

"I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with 'D'…"

Though it unfortunately brought no one any quicker to our aid, I swear that Holmes's howl of dismay could be heard for miles around.


	14. Being Boring

_I suppose you could regard this as a little coda to_ To Offer Solace_._

**

* * *

****BEING BORING**

The clock ticked steadily in the corner, a metronome to the cosy accompaniment of the crackling flames in the grate.

I sat in my armchair, full and contented after a hearty Sunday luncheon, my drowsy attention absorbed by the mundane articles in the newspaper spread upon my lap. Beside me Holmes lay dozing beneath a blanket, stretched out on the sofa, several yellowing pages from the medieval treatise he had been examining littering the carpet where they had fallen from his slackened fingers.

We had passed a quiet day, uninterrupted by callers or telegrams. No thefts had disturbed our blessed haven of peace and tranquillity; no murder drew us away from our fireside into the cold and damp of the metropolis outside. Even the fact that Holmes was suffering from a spring cold did not disrupt our calm, my notoriously difficult friend and patient for once accepting my treatments and prescriptions without argument. Much to my surprise, he appeared to relish the unexpected lull in the excitement of our existence almost as much as I did myself.

I could only put it down to the effects of age, for Holmes seemed to have mellowed a little with the turning of the century two years before. For the first time in all our years of friendship I sensed he might be discovering that his work was not the only thing in life that was important to him. Where once he would have been lost without a case, without some mystery to solve, he was now more relaxed; perhaps more content. Some of the demons had at last been laid to rest. After more than two decades of black moods, cocaine addiction and nervous collapse, I could only be grateful for the change, however late it had come. A happy Holmes was something for which during the darkest hours I could only have wished.

There was a light tap at the door, and Mrs Hudson entered bearing a tea tray, drawing me from my thoughts. Her step was enough to wake Holmes from his light sleep, and he sat up groggily, trying to stifle a yawn. He tried to decline the tea, but our formidable landlady would have none of it, plumping the pillows behind him and even stirring honey into the brew she poured to soothe this throat. Years ago Holmes would have almost thrown the cup and saucer across the room, detesting the merest hint of being fussed over, but now he merely offered a token protest and submitted to the attention with better if not entirely good grace.

I watched with a smile, and accepted the tea Mrs Hudson offered, content in the small and trivial matters of life. With the day to day uncertainties of working with the world's only private consulting detective it was as well to draw comfort from them, for we could be sure that very soon we would be plunged into danger and intrigue once again.

The world was changing around us, and one never knew what lurked just around the corner.


	15. The Patter of Tiny Feet

**THE PATTER OF TINY FEET**

Sherlock Holmes stared at me in disbelief. "Surely you are joking with me, Watson. Can you honestly not hear them?"

I stood in the centre of his bedchamber, listening intently, but had to admit after nearly ten minutes that I could hear nothing at all beyond the ticking of the sitting room clock and the nervous tapping of his fingers on the washstand.

Holmes's pale face tightened at this revelation. "I cannot understand why. The noise is perfectly clear to me."

"Are you absolutely certain that you are not imagining it?" I enquired after a moment's hesitation, apprehensive as to his reaction.

He was absolutely still, fists clenched at his side, mouth a thin line. His whole posture radiated tension. "Well," he said quietly, "if my closest friend thinks that I am going mad - "

"I think nothing of the sort, Holmes," I sighed. "It is merely that these mice you insist are in the wainscoting - "

"They _are_ in the wainscoting," he declared with absolute finality. "The matter is beyond debate."

"Then they are evidently not keen on…alerting me to their presence."

"They have been alerting _me_ to their presence every night for a week," Holmes replied. "But, if I cannot convince you then there is little to be gained in continuing this conversation." He sank down on his bed and waved me away with a flick of the wrist.

Dismissed, I listened again as I left the room, even going so far as to crouch and press my ear to the wall in case I could catch a momentary scratching against the skirting board, but I could still hear nothing. There was no evidence of the noises that had apparently been disturbing my friend's rest for days on end and I could not shake the disloyal feeling that he had indeed been mistaken.

In truth, Holmes did look tired, the dark circles under his eyes becoming steadily larger each morning. Such was his mercurial nature that he could go without sleep for days at a time when thoroughly engaged on a case, but once his great brain lost its momentum and needed calm and relaxation, doing without his customary night's rest was more than he could stand. He became even more snappish and irritable than usual, and just lately had taken to staying up till all hours, avoiding his bedroom and the sounds which he insisted were causing the problem.

I could understand how frustrating and distressing it could be when one desperately needed and craved sleep and was continually denied it, but what could I do about mice that I could not hear? The rational side of my brain kept telling me that, as I could make out no signs of their presence, the rodents simply did not exist, but Holmes was adamant that they did and despite my immediate instincts I knew that he was not a man given to strange fancies.

For another two days I prevaricated over what to do. I dared not mention the matter to Mrs Hudson in case she took offence at the suggestion that her house was overrun with vermin. Holmes did not mention the mice to me again, and I naively assumed they had departed for pastures new.

It was only when I was awoken at two o'clock in the morning and descended to find him, wild-eyed and dishevelled, hunched over by the skirting board with a loaded revolver in his hand that I decided it might be time to call in a pest-control professional…

* * *

_I had a very similar experience to Holmes last night - mice in the loft that no one else could hear. Freaked me out no end..._


	16. Passport to Perplexity

**PASSPORT TO PERPLEXITY**

"I have it, Watson, I have it!"

I turned from my desk as Holmes burst into the sitting room. "Excellent! Let me see!"

He struggled out of his overcoat, leaving it in a pile on the floor where it fell, and hurried over to the table, a fat brown envelope in his hand. As I joined him, he withdrew a sheaf of papers and spread them out upon the tablecloth.

A forthcoming trip abroad at the behest of the Sicilian government had caused Holmes to discover that his passport had recently expired, necessitating the application for a new one. In the time since he had last gone through the procedure, a new means of identification by the addition of a photograph of the named individual had been introduced. We were both interested to see the effect that this would have upon criminals attempting to flee the country with forged documents, and naturally Holmes was eager to try this new innovation.

"Where is the picture, then?" I enquired, leafing through the usual descriptions of height, hair and eye colour. My friend was not one to allow himself to be photographed if he could help it, and I was curious to see the result, knowing that various photographic studios had begun to offer their services for specially posed passport images.

"Hmm?" Holmes was checking through the documents and only half paying attention to me. "Oh, I suppose it must be here somewhere…"

I lifted another page (the whole thing was the size of a small newspaper when unfolded), and discovered a small square picture affixed to the back. Turning it over, I was somewhat surprised to find, instead of the expected head and shoulders shot which invariably made the person in question look like an apprehended villain, something quite… different. I felt a frown creep onto my face.

"Holmes…" I said, holding the offending page at arm's length and examining it critically.

"Yes, Watson?"

"I assume that the purpose of these pictures is to aid recognition and eradicate fraudulent use of travel documents."

"That would be the logical explanation, indeed," he agreed, distracted.

"Well, if that is the case, why have you used a full-length photograph? Not only that, but a photograph taken from a distance of at least ten feet? In the _garden_?" I asked incredulously.

At length the great detective lifted his head to look at me. "The instructions insisted on a photograph of two inches square," he replied. "There was nothing to indicate how that picture should be posed."

"That's as may be, but…" I looked at the photograph again. "Holmes, one would be able to recognise Mrs Hudson's prize azaleas more readily from this picture than you yourself!"

He gathered up the papers, taking the sheet with the photograph from my finger and folding it away with the rest. "Then I will have to ensure I take a bunch with me on my next trip abroad," he said, and vanished into his bedroom, leaving me to shake my head in astonished amusement.

I hoped that he would invite me along for this Sicilian trip, for I would not miss his first experience of customs with this new passport for the world…

* * *

**A/N:**_ The guy who took my photo yesterday for my new passport told me about one he'd recently seen from the beginning of the last century - it was apparently the size of a newspaper, and the chap to whom it belonged really did have a photo of himself in the garden, complete with rosebushes. :)_


	17. Manners Maketh The Man

**Author's Note:** Fluff, written because the lack of courtesy these days makes me angry.

**

* * *

**

**MANNERS MAKETH THE MAN**

"That was a lovely evening, Holmes, thank you," I said as we made our way down the stairs to the foyer.

Around us people were hurrying towards the exit to claim the waiting cabs to take them home, their movements more urgent than normal for it was an unpleasant night. The rain drove down hard upon the pavement, and I could hear its drumming even over the babble of conversation. I negotiated the steps with more care, still unsteady on my feet after a violent altercation with a forger and confidence trickster a few days before. My old wound had been aggravated, and, coupled with the effect of the wet weather, was making its presence felt with some force.

"I am glad you enjoyed it, my dear fellow. There is nothing like the right music to aid in recuperation." Holmes, as usual after the successful conclusion of a case and a concert of violin music, was in a buoyant mood. The ennui and lethargy which would inevitably follow a period of intense employment had yet to draw in, and he had been positively chatty during the interval, expounding upon Joachim's fingering and Tchaikovsky's symphonies. He took the stairs at a pace which for him must have been frustratingly slow, one hand poised at my elbow in case I should require his assistance.

It must have been obvious to him that I was feeling rather tired – the hour was late and the steps seemed interminable. I would not however beg help from my friend in such a public place – I have my pride, and, pain or no pain, I would make it to the foyer by myself. Holmes knew this well, which was why he chose to make the gesture as unobtrusively as possible. It was just as well that he did, since I had not reckoned on the sudden appearance of a young couple from behind, pushing past us in their determination to beat the rest of the departing audience to the waiting transport. Such was the speed at which they moved that the young man quite bowled me over, sending me tumbling into Holmes, who thankfully was standing close and had the presence of mind to catch hold of my arm to stop me hitting the floor. So great was the momentum that, had I fallen, I am in no doubt I would have tumbled down the remaining stairs to land amongst the theatre patrons already jostling below.

The couple did not even slow down, having barrelled into us, the youth even having the temerity to call out an insincere "Frightfully sorry!" over his shoulder in my direction before resuming his previous unnecessary pace.

Holmes set me carefully back on my feet. "Are you all right, Watson?" he asked anxiously.

I nodded, trying to catch my breath. "Just… just a little shaken."

"And no wonder." My friend's mouth set in a thin line, and his grey eyes flashed. He assisted me in descending the final steps and then almost leaned me against the wall in a corner away from the crowd. His quick gaze scanned the bustling throng for a few seconds before he caught sight of something and was moving away. "Wait here a moment, there's a good chap."

"Why? What are you going to do? _Holmes_!" I called after him, but he was gone, stalking through the crowd to where the young couple who had pushed past me were claiming their coats.

The crush of people eased a little as the first rank of cabs pulled away, and I could see them, talking animatedly about something or other as the young man helped his companion to put on her cloak. This done, they turned to leave, only to find the implacable figure of Sherlock Holmes blocking their path, arms folded across his chest and drawn up to his full imposing height.

"Out of my way, man," the lad ordered in a superior tone, "my fiancée and I are in a considerable hurry."

"So I observed," Holmes replied, the ice in his voice audible even from such a distance. Feeling a little steadier, I straightened and limped towards the scene of the altercation as fast as I could given the number of people in the room.

"Then you'll remove yourself from our path with alacrity," said the young man, bristling with his own importance and not in the least bit cowed by the deadly glint in my friend's eye. He waited, evidently expecting to be immediately obeyed, but Holmes did not move, much to his obvious irritation. "Well, go on, jump to it! What the devil are you waiting for?"

Holmes stared down his formidable nose at the youth, as though he were observing a particularly nasty specimen he had acquired for one of his experiments. "An apology," he said simply.

My assailant bristled further. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"I believe you heard me well enough."

"What's happening, Peregrine? What is all this?" demanded the young lady at his side. "What does he mean?"

"Nothing, Clementina, nothing at all. Get out of my way, sir or I shall be forced to call a constable!" her fiancé snarled, taking a step towards Holmes.

The detective held his ground. "Please do. I have no doubt that the constable on this particular beat will have no hesitation in supporting me." He turned to Clementina. "You must forgive me, madam, but your fiancé nearly knocked my friend down the stairs just now. I am merely requesting that he apologise to the gentleman in question forthwith. It is, I believe, a reasonable request, with which any honourable person would be happy to comply."

"Oh," she said, her pretty face crumpling into an annoyed frown, "that. How tiresome. Does it really matter? I want to get home."

Holmes gave her a look of disgust before returning his attention to Peregrine. "Well, sir? Here is Doctor Watson – you may apologise to him now."

"I have done nothing wrong," the youth announced defiantly, aware, as I was myself, that people were beginning to stare and mutter amongst themselves as the confrontation dragged on. "And in any case," he added, seeing me approach, "I _did_ apologise."

"I do not regard two words uttered an afterthought to be an adequate apology for almost seriously injuring a war hero," said Holmes sharply. "You nearly knocked down a man who risked his life for queen and country under the baking sun, against almost insurmountable odds - something I doubt you would stand for more than a moment – all because you wished to be first to reach a cab. This man, who almost died in Afghanistan, and who saved the lives of dozens of others, could have been hurt because of your selfishness and lack of courtesy. What do you have to say to that?"

There was a pause. Young Peregrine glanced in my direction and his face beneath its extravagant whiskers visibly paled. I did not hear the rest of the exchange as I was too far from them and their voices were quite suddenly lowered. I saw both the young people look at me more than once, and then, a few moments later Peregrine crossed what remained of the gradually emptying foyer and made a somewhat reluctant but nonetheless appreciated apology. No sooner was it over than his red-faced fiancée pulled him away and they made their escape past the watching Holmes, who had returned to my side during the proceedings.

"Thank you, my dear fellow, but you really did not have to lay it on so thickly," I said when they had gone. "My days of soldiering are long-since gone."

My friend smiled, holding out my coat. "Heroism is not confined merely to the battlefield, Watson," was his reply, and together we headed out into the rain-soaked night to join the queue for a cab.


	18. Tea and Sympathy

**Author's Note:**_ More fluff - I can't seem to get my brain into gear for a more complicated plot at the moment..._

**

* * *

**

**TEA AND SYMPATHY**

"Please, Watson, it is of no use. Leave me be, I beg of you."

Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled across our sofa, still in his nightclothes and dressing gown despite the evening drawing in. He had been listless all day, barely bothering to raise his head to take notice of what was happening around him. The combination of an unexpected failure to solve a case and an early recourse to the dreaded cocaine bottle had sunk him into the depths of a black fit. My gentle cajoling for him to eat something had been to no avail, eventually eliciting a response that was unfortunately not the one for which I had been hoping.

"You can't take it personally, Holmes," I said, crouching down at his side. "There was nothing more you could have done."

"I failed. That is what matters here. Two men died and a murderer escaped because I overlooked a detail which should have been obvious to a logician such as myself." Holmes's face contracted, his hands clenching into fists. "At present I rate myself below even the worst bunglers at Scotland Yard. Save your sympathy, for I do not deserve it."

I sighed, climbing awkwardly to my feet. "Starving yourself will not help matters."

"There is little point in eating when everything turns to ashes in your mouth." He was silent following this morbid pronouncement, eyes turned inward once again. I hated to see him in the depths of such despair. For the moment my friend had disappeared, leaving a lethargic, unkempt stranger in his place: his clothing was crumpled, his hair an untidy, uncombed mop. Black circles lurked beneath his eyes; his hollow cheeks were adorned with at least three days' worth of stubble. Usually a man of cat-like neatness with regards to his personal appearance, when depression came upon him he cared nothing to be seen in such a state; moreover he did not even appear to notice how far he had fallen. Nothing mattered beyond the desolation which consumed that great brain, wrapping around and stifling the emotion he claimed not to possess but which I knew was very real indeed. The cocaine only exacerbated matters, leaving him sluggish and exhausted, prey to all kinds of mental demons. He lay there, a shell of the man I knew, barely even aware of my presence.

I turned, unable to look upon him any longer, and went to pull the curtains for darkness was falling swiftly around us. As I shut out the wintry twilight, there was a knock at the door.

"I'm just off now, Doctor," our landlady said when I answered it. "Is there anything you need before I go?"

"No, thank you, Mrs Hudson. We'll be fine," I replied, closing the door behind me and accompanying her down the stairs. "Let me call you a cab."

"Oh, no, sir, it's quite all right. My nephew will be here in a moment." The good lady glanced in the hall mirror to check that her hat was securely pinned, and then turned back to me with a concerned frown. "I'm not entirely happy about leaving Mr Holmes. Is he still in one of his moods?"

"I'm afraid so. He is terribly depressed over the Lawrence case."

Mrs Hudson shook her head with a cluck of the tongue. "He needs something to lift him out of it. I don't want to have another week like that one a year ago when he refused to leave his bed for days on end. It's not healthy, Doctor, truly it's not."

"I very much hope it won't come to that," I said, even though I was not entirely optimistic about the situation. "I - "

There was a sharp ring on the front doorbell. Mrs Hudson pulled her shawl up about her shoulders. "Do try, sir won't you?" she asked, resting a hand briefly on my arm. "We can't let him go to pieces because of one mistake. Try and make him eat something, at least – he's nothing but skin and bones."

"I will certainly do my best, Mrs Hudson, I promise," I said, opening the door for her. She nodded, satisfied, and departed with the young man who was standing upon the steps.

Left alone in the hall, I turned to climb the stairs, and as I did my eye fell upon a brown paper parcel lying upon the table. Accepting any excuse to delay the long, painful journey back to the sitting room, I realised that Mrs Hudson must have left the package behind. I snatched it up and looked out of the front door, intending to follow her, but there was no sign of the good lady or her nephew in the street. Surmising that they must have taken a cab after all I withdrew indoors once more with the intention of replacing the parcel upon the table. However, the string which bound it decided at that particular moment to snap, and the whole thing unravelled, its contents tumbling to the floor. Thankfully there was another, more carefully wrapped package inside, but that too ripped slightly and something soft, round and rather familiar rolled out onto the parquet.

"Crumpets!" I exclaimed involuntarily. Things had been so hectic recently, with so much coming and going at odd hours, that I had not seen a crumpet in some time, much less eaten one. I found myself overcome by a sudden urge to cover one with jam and dripping butter, and could feel my mouth watering at the thought. It seemed that Mrs Hudson must have bought the crumpets to take to her niece's for tea, but since she had left them behind it would be a shame to waste them. I considered for a moment before scooping up the remainder of the parcel and carrying it through to the kitchen. There I boiled the kettle and procured a few essential items before making my return to the sitting room.

Holmes had not moved in my absence. He lay staring up at the ceiling, one hand trailing limply over the side of the sofa into the mess of discarded newspapers and other detritus which covered the floor. Mrs Hudson had not been allowed into the room to clean for a week and the place was in a disgraceful state. I said as much to Holmes, but he was too caught up in his own misery to even care. The sleeve of his dressing gown had ridden up and I could see the mottling of needle marks, old and new, disfiguring his sinewy forearm. I bit back my usual disapproval and put down the tray I was carrying on his desk.

He made no reaction as I went to the fire and gave it a good stirring with the poker. The blaze obligingly sprang into renewed life, casting a cosy, ruddy glow over the room. Pleased, I retrieved the tray and brought it and its contents to the little table beside Holmes's armchair. There I settled myself, pouring a cup of tea from the pot I had made before coming upstairs.

Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock and crackling of the leaping flames in the grate. After a while I heard a rustling of fabric in addition to this and glanced up to see that Holmes had finally rolled onto his side and was watching me with a frown of confusion. The clinking of china in the course of my activities had evidently managed to rouse his interest where nothing else could.

"Watson," he said hoarsely, "What _are_ you doing?"

"Making supper," I replied, spearing one of the crumpets with the toasting fork and offering it to the blaze. "Mrs Hudson has gone out, so we must fend for ourselves. Would you like some?"

Eyes wide from insomnia and cocaine, he considered the offer for a moment before shaking his head and lowering it back down onto the cushions. The heavy lids closed and he wearily murmured, "No, thank you."

"Not even a cup of tea?" I tried, lifting the pot and causing it to deliberately chink invitingly against the cups.

Another tired shake of the head served as an answer. Sighing inwardly, I returned to my task. My mouth watered anew at the delicious smell of toasted crumpets which was soon wafting through the room, and I quickly had three piled upon a plate, liberally smothered with melting butter. I reached for the jam pot, but could not resist taking a bite first – as my teeth sank into the hot, buttery treat I became aware that Holmes had opened his eyes and was watching me again.

His dull grey gaze met mine, and the question contained within it needed no words. My mouth still full from the bite I had taken, I slid one of the crumpets onto a fresh plate and held it out to him. He hesitated for a long moment before reaching out one thin, trembling hand to take it.

The tiny ghost of a smile which touched his face as he bit into the plate's contents lifted my heart just a little. A further attempt on my part coaxed him into having a cup of tea as well, and by the time we had finished our meal I dared to hope that he might be starting to emerge from the black fit's clutches after all.

"Thank you," he said, and I wondered whether Mrs Hudson had left the crumpets behind entirely by accident…


	19. A Time and A Place

**Author's Note:** _I suddenly realised it's a year since I joined the site, so this little offering is in recognition of that. :)_

**

* * *

**

**A TIME AND A PLACE**

"Watson," said Holmes as I ducked another shot which glanced off the stone wall inches from where my head had been moments before, showering us both with chips, "have you any idea what day it is today?"

I levelled my revolver to aim at the figure in the doorway opposite, and cursed a moment later when it moved and the shot went wide. "I don't know," I replied, distracted. "Tuesday?"

He tsked in irritation. "No, no, no, I mean the date."

Thomas fired again, this time almost taking off Holmes's left ear. I dragged him aside – he didn't even appear to have noticed the bullet whistling past his head. "Does it matter?" I asked, astounded that he should be occupying his formidable brain with something so trivial – and at a time like this! "We do have rather more pressing concerns, in case you had failed to notice."

Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew his own gun, checked it was loaded and drew back the hammer. As he spoke he peered carefully over the wall, watching the shadows on the opposite side of the street. "Well, it did just occur to me that today is the 20th, which makes it exactly a year since we decided to take the rooms at 221B."

"Really?" I stopped in surprise. "I had no idea twelve months could pass so quickly - "

There was a commotion from the house in which Thomas was sheltering. I heard the distinctive shrill of a police whistle, and a second later found myself thrown to the floor as a shot, a heavier bore than previously, embedded itself in the stone behind me. Holmes, who had knocked me bodily aside, pulled himself upwards. Climbing to his knees, and leaving me to regain my breath, he took a glance over the wall once more.

"Damnation! Where is Lestrade?" he muttered.

I sat up to see the sizeable hole in the masonry and felt myself blanch. The shot would have gone straight through me had my friend not been so quick-thinking. "We're sitting ducks here, Holmes. He knows we'll run out of ammunition sooner or later."

"And by that logic, so will he. Hopefully before the official forces arrive." Holmes lifted his revolver, and I saw him level it at the doorway, taking a careful sight along the barrel. "Did you have any plans for this evening?" he asked casually, as though we were sitting in a restaurant in the Strand rather than crouching in the dark behind a garden wall with a madman taking pot-shots at us with an elephant gun.

"Oh, nothing much beyond settling down with a large whisky and a good book. Being shot at is much more relaxing," I replied facetiously.

One corner of his mouth twitched upwards, that strange approximation of a smile I had become so used to over the last year. "Good man."

There was a flurry of activity in the doorway opposite – I readied my revolver, only to find to my horror that the hammer clicked upon an empty chamber. Somewhere beyond our hiding place I could hear the tramp of booted feet, the whinnying of horses, but they were too far away. By the law of averages Thomas would have a successful shot soon, and once one of us was down it would be easy to pick off the other. "Holmes…" I began, but he shook his head.

"Nil desperandum, Watson," he said, his long white finger tightening upon the trigger of his gun. The revolver kicked in his hand, and a cry of pain rang out from the doorway opposite. I saw a figure crumple to the ground, clutching its shoulder, heard the clatter of something heavy and metallic hitting the steps. Holmes turned to me and cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "Any regrets?"

"About coming with you tonight?" I thought about the past twenty-four hours, about the chase through the warehouses down on the docks, the desperate race to find Holmes before Thomas made good his threat to 'end that meddling whelp's career before it has begun', and then this last stand-off with the blackguard who had intended to poison the supply of tea just arrived from China in order to force the government to pay him an exorbitant amount of money. Since I left the house I had been hit over the head twice, nearly run down by a cab and found myself dodging a hail of bullets – I was now running purely upon adrenalin and knew that when it left me I would quite probably collapse for I had managed no more than two hours' sleep since Sunday night. I wanted nothing more than to return to Baker Street and reacquaint myself with the concept of a quiet evening in.

"About taking rooms with me in the first place," Holmes corrected, and I knew that, had I not met this eccentric, mercurial man, those quiet evenings would have become monotonous; a run of days, weeks, even months where nothing ever changed and routine was king. I would have known nothing more than a comfortable but dull way of life where adventure and excitement were to be found purely between the covers of a yellow-backed novel. Would I really have preferred that? I wondered.

"Of course not," I said, in answer to both questions. He smiled, and the next moment swayed, nearly falling. I caught him, and a quick examination revealed a nasty gash across his forehead, no doubt caused by the flying masonry. "Besides," I added, rummaging in my pocket for a handkerchief, "who would patch you up if I were not here?"

"Contrary to popular opinion, Doctor, I do not bring you along on these - " He struggled for a word, taking a stride forwards and almost ending up on the ground again.

I grabbed his arm. "Foolhardy ventures?" I suggested.

" – investigations," he continued, as though I had never spoken, "purely for your medical skills."

"I am glad to hear it."

"However," Holmes added, brushing vainly at the blood which was trickling into his eyes, "I will not deny that they do come in useful at times…"

I could not help but laugh at his understatement, hearing him chuckle as well, and hoisted his arm about my shoulders, helping him away from our cover as Inspector Lestrade and a veritable army of Bobbies finally descended upon the house across the street. "Come on," I said, "We both need a bath, a drink and a good night's sleep. Let's find a cab back to Baker Street. Let's go home."

And as we staggered along the road in the direction of Holborn, I could not help but wonder exactly when I had really begun to think of it as such, for home it truly was.


	20. A Change Is As Good As A Rest

**A CHANGE IS AS GOOD AS A REST**

"Is Mr Holmes not enjoying himself?" Mrs Grimesthorpe asked, reaching for the teapot having taken it upon herself to be mother. The terrace was quiet at this time, most of the other guests having made an excursion into town, or to see some of the local sights. My wound was paining me, having trekked ten miles over the hills with Holmes the previous day, and I will admit that I was quite grateful for the respite.

I accepted the cup she passed me. "What makes you say that?"

She glanced at the tall figure leaning some distance away upon the stone balustrade, looking down into the gardens below. He had declined the offer of tea, and gone to watch the few people taking a turn about the herbaceous borders. "Well, he does not appear to be very happy at present. Last night he barely said a word all through dinner, and took himself off before the coffee was served. Is it true that you are both here for a rest cure, and not upon a case?"

"I am," I said, telling myself that it was only a white lie. Holmes would be mortified if I revealed that it was really he who was in need of recuperation. "Mr Holmes kindly agreed to accompany me."

"Ah." The lady nodded. "He does not like holidays. My dear James was much the same. He called seaside hotels such as this Idlers' Retreats – always had to be engaged upon some worthwhile pursuit. Nothing to shoot by the sea - unless one wishes to take pot-shots at the seagulls, of course."

"It is true that Mr Holmes does not feel himself able to relax unless there has been a murder or robbery in the vicinity," I admitted, and she smiled.

"In that case perhaps we should engineer some minor crime, just to distract him," she said mischievously. "Then I might be permitted some conversation with him over an aperitif. I freely admit that I find him quite fascinating."

Knowing that Holmes would be horrified at the thought of a rich widow taking an interest in him, I took a sip of my tea, and turned my gaze briefly towards my friend. Holmes had abandoned his habitual black in deference to the heat and the countryside, and even after all these years I found it difficult to get used to seeing him in a linen suit and panama. Outwardly he looked cool and calm, but his brow was stormy, and I was well aware that the situation and the company at the hotel did not please him at all.

Though I had on occasion taken myself off for a holiday, this was only the second time in our long acquaintance that I ever persuaded my friend to accompany me, and once again it had been the threat of damaging ill-health which proved the deciding factor. The first years of the new century coincided with a flurry of activity on the criminal front, and Holmes was once again teetering upon the threshold of a breakdown. Nervous exhaustion was my diagnosis, and I prescribed a complete change of scene at once. Thankfully this time the illness was not as extreme as his collapse of '97, when I had taken him off to a remote part of Cornwall to recover, and the sea air and exercise were already producing a marked improvement. Without work, however, my mercurial friend was convinced that his mind would stagnate, and to my disappointment not even the interesting collection of characters which made up our fellow guests could lift his profound black humour.

It was my idea to make the journey north to Whitby, a plan with which Holmes fell in with the greatest reluctance. Only when Mrs Hudson informed us that she was going away for a week and we would either have to endure a temporary cook or fend for ourselves did he eventually agree to the trip. Since then his moods varied between listlessness, irritation and furious energy, during which he either remained locked in his room or led me upon marches across the moors a few miles outside the town. The ruined abbey on the cliff top seemed to attract him in this bleak state of mind, and I had found him more than once wandering between the stark stone arches, listening to the sea pounding below. When I asked him if he wished to talk to me about anything, he merely smiled sadly and shook his head, no more able to share his feelings with me than he had been in Cornwall.

Now, as I watched him standing there alone, deliberately keeping himself aloof from the little knots of people which surrounded him, I wondered whether removing him from London and the possibility of more work had been the right thing to do. His physical health might suffer, but what of his mental state? It had always been fragile, though he would never admit it, and he had told me more than once that he could not live without problems to unravel, puzzles to solve. Where were puzzles to be found amidst this gathering of widows, retired colonels and young lovebirds?

"Oh, look: it's Mrs Slingsby," Mrs Grimesthorpe remarked, sitting back in her chair and lowering her parasol better to see the young woman hurrying up the steps from the garden. Mrs Slingsby and her husband were newlyweds, honeymooning at the hotel – I had observed them many times taking walks along the promenade completely wrapped up in each other. It was delightful to see, such a devoted couple just setting out upon their life together.

However, Mrs Slingsby did not look like a blissfully happy bride as she virtually ran the length of the terrace, her skirts hitched well above her ankles so as not to impede her steps and her hair flying as it came loose from its pins. She called out, and it was then that I became aware she was heading straight towards Holmes, who turned at the sound of her running feet upon the gravel.

"Mr Holmes! Oh, Mr Holmes, whatever shall I do?" she cried. "It's Algernon - he's…he's…" Her voice caught and she gave a great sob, burying her face in her hands.

I started to my feet automatically, but to my surprise Holmes took the distraught young woman gently by the elbow and led her to an unoccupied table by the conservatory. There they both sat, Mrs Slingsby gulping out an explanation through her tears, and accepting the handkerchief Holmes offered her. He listened gravely, and nodded several times – I could make out nothing of the conversation, for it was conducted in low voices, and I would not venture nearer unless requested for Mrs Slingsby had approached Holmes, and Holmes alone.

Mrs Grimesthorpe was watching them with open curiosity. "Well, Doctor," she said, glancing at me and raising an eyebrow, "it seems that Mr Holmes may have got his distraction after all. Whatever can have happened to put that poor little bride in such a state?"

I wondered as well, but it did not take long for me to discover the truth. Holmes, having spoken some words of evident reassurance to Mrs Slingsby, got to his feet and strode briskly across to our table. I knew immediately that some terrible crime must have been committed, for his face, though grim, was positively animated, the life back in the keen grey eyes.

"The game's afoot, Watson," he said, taking my arm and turning me abruptly away from Mrs Grimesthorpe, who was listening avidly. "Algernon Slingsby has been murdered."

"Good God!"

"We must move swiftly, before the local police comes bumbling in. I need you to come and examine the body - "

He continued to speak, but I heard little. Instead I looked up at him, saw that the drawn, unhappy aspect which had haunted his features for the past few weeks had gone as though it had been washed away, and sighed inwardly, realising anew that which I had first divined many years ago: to prescribe a change of scenery, sea air and exercise was one thing, but no doctor could ever provide Sherlock Holmes with a better tonic than a new case to solve.


	21. Wherever I Lay My Hat

**WHEREVER I LAY MY HAT**

It was late on an inclement Friday evening, and Holmes and I were on the point of retiring for the night, when the front doorbell rang. It echoed through the house, Mrs Hudson having gone to bed herself an hour since, and I rose to answer only to be stayed by Holmes's hand on my arm.

"Remain in your seat, my dear fellow. Whatever they want, I shall send them away."

I twisted, watching him cross the room. "If it is medical assistance they need - "

"I will direct them to the nearest alternative." He turned at the door and shot me a stern glance. "You are done in, Watson, and you must have some rest."

"That is the pot calling the kettle black," I retorted, though I did feel exhausted. A recent outbreak of measles had been keeping me rushed off my feet. "When did you obey my instructions regarding sleep when you were trying to isolate that chemical compound last week?"

Holmes sniffed. "That is entirely different."

"How so?"

He opened the door and headed out onto the landing. His voice floated back to me. "Because I am allowed to disregard your orders. I will not permit you to disobey mine."

I laughed, for such a response was typical of a man of his commanding nature. Sitting back and contemplating climbing the flight of stairs which led to my bedroom, I listened to his footsteps descending to the hall. The bell pealed again before he reached the front door, and he shouted something intelligible at the person so insistently ringing upon it at such an ungodly hour. I must have dozed off again, for the next thing I knew Holmes was shaking me gently by the arm and I opened my eyes to see that we were no longer alone in our rooms.

Perched awkwardly upon the sofa was the massive form of Mycroft Holmes, a large glass of brandy looking very delicate in his flipper-like hand. I found myself frowning, for visits from my friend's older brother were rare indeed, and unheard of so late in the day. Mycroft was a man of routine, and very much averse to deviating from the familiar patterns which comprised his life. Only once or twice had he come to Baker Street, instead preferring to summon his brother to his regular haunt, the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall.

Seeing my confusion, he waved his glass in my direction. "Good evening, Doctor. I must apologise for the intrusion, but I thought it only right to inform Sherlock of my temporary change in circumstances, and to stop off here on the way seemed the easiest method of doing so."

"Change in circumstances? I don't follow." I scrubbed at my leaden eyes, trying to return myself to some semblance of consciousness.

"There has been an assassination attempt at the Diogenes," said Holmes gravely. "Just over an hour ago."

I blinked. "Assassination? What - ?"

"A bomb, to be precise, Doctor," Mycroft explained, "Or at least what the police believe to be a bomb. It was discovered in the Strangers' Room by one of the attendants. Thankfully it did not have enough of a charge to do more than damage the outside wall and two of the bookcases, but Her Majesty's forces of law and order have seen fit to evacuate both the club and the attendant buildings. Consequently, as I live just across the street I have not been able to return to my lodgings to do more than pack a portmanteau."

"Good God," I breathed, astonished.

"Fortunately Mycroft's rooms are on the ground floor, so nothing was damaged," Holmes added. "Mr Melas was not so lucky – the force of the blast shattered both his windows."

"I have therefore been forced to seek shelter elsewhere," Mycroft finished, draining the last of his brandy. "It is damned inconvenient, I can tell you. There has not been a night for the last thirty-nine years when I have slept somewhere other than either my lodgings or the Diogenes."

My fuddled mind finally worked its way back to full comprehension, and I sat up straight in my chair. "You must stay here," I said.

The reaction I received, however, was not quite that which I was expecting. Holmes looked horrified, and Mycroft startled. He put down his glass, lifting a hand in refusal.

"No, no, Doctor, it is very kind of you, but - "

"Nonsense. It is the most obvious solution," I replied firmly, despite Holmes's hissed attempts to persuade me otherwise. "You are welcome to my room - I can stay at the surgery for a couple of nights until all this is sorted out."

"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, and his brother shook his head.

"Thank you, but I must decline," he said. "Apart from the fact that your room is on the second floor and to climb those stairs in addition to the seventeen one already has to negotiate in this poorly-thought out building is more than I can stand, there is the added complication of a promise I made to myself a long time ago that Sherlock and I would never spend another night under the same roof as long as I had the power to prevent it. I am happy to say that I have kept that promise since July 1867, when I left home to come and take up a position in Whitehall, and I do not intend to break it now."

Holmes's mouth twitched in amusement, which led me to wonder exactly what had caused Mycroft to make such a vow. "Where will you go, brother mine?" he enquired. "To Cressida? I am sure she has a spare room."

"What, and have to endure children running around my feet?" Mycroft said, scandalised. "I shall leave that pleasure to you, since you and she seem to be on such good terms these days."

"Then where?" I asked, as Holmes's smile swiftly became a scowl of annoyance.

The elder Holmes heaved himself to his feet. "I shall repair to the Bentinck, in Duke Street. It is conveniently situated, though I shall be forced to take a cab to work, which will be most irksome."

"You? In a hotel?" his brother said, not quite able to believe what he was hearing. I admit to some amazement myself, for Mycroft was one of the founder members of the only club in London to encourage its members to ignore one another.

"Indeed," Mycroft replied, pulling on his gloves. "Louisa Trotter will make me very welcome. Besides, I'm sure a hotel which has no public lounge and encourages its guests to remain in their rooms will suit me very well." He picked up his hat, bade us goodnight and departed, leaving his brother and myself staring after him with open mouths.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_Louisa Trotter and the Bentinck are references to 70s BBC drama_ The Duchess of Duke Street_. The series was created by John Hawkesworth, who developed the Granada Holmes for television alongside Michael Cox. We've been watching it again recently, and it seems to have wormed its way into my consciousness. :)_


	22. On The Other Hand

**ON THE OTHER HAND**

"I suggest you stay very still, Doctor Watson, unless you wish me to treat you in the same fashion as your friend," Harris said, motioning with his pistol for me to raise my hands above my head.

Reluctantly, I complied, leaving the overflowing drawer and the incriminating papers it held. "You won't get away with this," I growled, well aware that we had been neatly caught in a trap of the banker's devising. There was little I could do but brazen it out, as Harris had taken Holmes down with a well-aimed shot to the shoulder mere moments before, and my revolver was out of reach. I glanced anxiously again at my friend, who slumped against the wall on the other side of the room, blood pooling on his coat. I could not tell from where I stood whether he was conscious or not – he still appeared to be breathing, thank God, but he had not moved since the bullet struck him, throwing him to the floor. My gun lay a mere two feet from his outstretched hand.

Harris smiled. "And how precisely are you intending to stop me? You are hardly in a position to negotiate: I have every advantage. Oh, there's no point looking for help from that quarter, Doctor," he added, nodding towards Holmes as though reading my mind. He laughed; a girlish giggling which set my teeth on edge. "I read your memoirs in _The Strand_ – I know that Mr Holmes here is right-handed, and I took special care to incapacitate his dominant arm. It appears though that he's not as clever as you make him out to be. It was child's play to catch you both in here – you really must try harder, Mr Holmes, or your reputation will suffer!"

Holmes made no reaction.

"The police are moving in on this building as we speak, Harris," I declared, hoping against hope that Holmes's message had reached Gregson and the inspector was even now heading this way. "They will not allow you to leave this building except in custody."

"I doubt that very much," the banker said, moving to the window and easing back the blind a fraction. The gun never wavered, pointed straight at my heart. "You see, if it hadn't been for Mr Holmes's meddling, they would never have latched onto me in the first place. I'll be away from here and on a boat to the continent before anyone has even realised that the two of you are missing." He turned back to us, taking a firmer grip upon the pistol, chubby face set now in determination. "I don't think I'll kill you: that would be too quick. Instead I'll give you the opportunity to bleed to death. Is there anywhere in particular you would prefer me to aim, Doctor?"

From the corner of my eye I could make out movement behind the man, but he appeared to be oblivious to it so I kept my position, my hands held high. "Six inches above my head would be a good spot," I said.

Harris put his head on one side, eyes narrowed. "Do not play games with me, sir. If you are to be flippant then I shall choose for you. A shattered kneecap is I believe exquisitely painful – shall we begin there?" His finger tightened on the trigger, the gun moved downwards and I held my breath.

"Perhaps you would care to discover how painful a shattered skull can be," said a weak but commanding voice from Harris's shoulder, startling the banker who began to turn – before he could complete the motion Holmes struck him across the back of the head with the butt of my revolver. Harris crumpled to the floor without a sound.

Relief flooded through me, turning my legs to jelly. "You cut that rather fine, Holmes," I gasped.

He smiled slightly, and leaned heavily against the wall. "It's a good job you never thought to mention to your readers that I am ambidextrous," he said, glancing down at the gun he held in his left hand.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_I know there is no evidence in the canon to support the idea of Holmes being ambidextrous. However, in the Granada series Jeremy Brett - a left-hander himself - was convinced that Holmes was right-handed and so insisted on doing some things what was for him the wrong way round. This resulted in his Holmes writing with his right hand, but performing tasks requiring more dexterity - such as packing his pipe and striking matches - with his left. I therefore came to the conclusion that his Holmes, at least, is ambidextrous. :)_


	23. Many Happy Returns

**Author's Note:** This one was inspired by one of KCS's Fifty Sentences in _Doctor Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes_.

_"#24 – Now_

_Sherlock Holmes was stunned to discover that, for the first time in his adult life, someone had actually remembered – much less purchased him a gift for – his birthday; and watching the man tear into the package, flinging paper all over the hearthrug, his new flat-mate chuckled and only wondered why the detective was blinking so furiously."_

**

* * *

**

**MANY HAPPY RETURNS**

Sherlock Holmes's birthday was a closely-guarded secret. As with the majority of details about his past and personal life, he kept such information close to his chest. It took some time for me to learn that my fellow lodger was two years younger than myself, and even longer that his family came from old landed stock. We had shared rooms in Baker Street for nigh-on ten years before he mentioned his brother Mycroft to me.

Though I had no living relatives in England (the only exception my distant cousin Molly, with whom I had lost contact after joining the army), my circle of friends was large enough to ensure that upon the anniversary of my birth I regularly received one or two cards and congratulatory telegrams. Much to my surprise, however, as the months went on I noticed no such missives ever being delivered to my friend. Even at Christmas, when my own cards covered the bookshelves above my desk, Holmes's side of the room remained resolutely bare. I knew he had little in the way of friends, more through choice than anything, and it was this mysterious absence of any contact with the outside world of human existence which first gave me to think that he must be an orphan, with no relations to send cards or greetings. I found myself feeling sorry for him when the weeks passed inexorably without one letter which appeared to have come from someone other than a tradesman or a client.

I cannot recall exactly how I came to discover the date of Holmes's birth, but I do know it was sometime during the second year of our tenancy at 221B. Soon afterwards I became determined to do something to mark the occasion, and enlisted the assistance of a more than willing Mrs Hudson. In the course of my errands the week before I had noticed a perfect present for my friend in one of the jewellers in Regent Street, and it was this I carried – brightly-wrapped in appropriate paper – in the pocket of my jacket as I entered the sitting room on the afternoon of the momentous day.

Holmes was curled in his armchair, smoke drifting lazily from his pipe towards the ceiling. His eyes were closed, his face impassive, but I could see that despite the languid air there was an unusual tension in his spare frame. He did not move when I shut the door behind me with an audible click, did not even raise an eyelid. Now I have twenty years' familiarity with his habits I can look back and deduce that he had been indulging in the cocaine bottle, but in those days I was still unaware of the vice. Carefully I pulled the little package from my pocket and laid it down on the table at his elbow, before taking my own seat across the hearth and unfolding my copy of _The Evening Standard_.

The room was quiet, but for the ticking of the clock and the occasional pop from the fire in the hearth. I watched Holmes from the corner of my eye, but it was a full quarter of an hour after my arrival when he at last came to life. His eyes opened and he stretched, catlike, before turning to place his now cold pipe on the table. As he did, he immediately noticed the parcel which sat there amongst the litter of ashtrays and papers. He picked it up, open confusion creasing his face for perhaps the first time in our acquaintance.

"Watson, what is this?" he asked, and I smiled.

"I should have thought that would be obvious," I said.

"Well…" Holmes hesitated, holding the package between finger and thumb as though he thought it might bite him, "it would appear that you have dropped some of your shopping amongst my things."

"Not at all. I put it there quite deliberately."

His eyes widened. "Do you mean..?"

"I do indeed. It is for you." My smile broadened, and I rose from my seat to offer him my hand. "Happy Birthday, Holmes."

To my surprise, he did not respond, instead staring up at me in a mixture of shock and amazement. His mouth opened and closed two or three times without emitting a sound; and I began to become rather worried. Before I could ask him if he was quite all right, however, he seemed to overcome this strange paralysis and suddenly fell to ripping the paper from the box with childish enthusiasm. Scraps fell onto the hearthrug in his frenzy, but eventually he had the thing open, and was holding the present I had spotted a few days before: a silver cigarette case, which I had had engraved with his initials.

"Well?" I asked after several moments of silence. "What do you think? Do you like it?"

"I - " He faltered, and the worry returned, for I had never in the course of the last twenty-two months seen Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words. He did not move, his eyes fixed upon the object in his hands.

"I saw that your old one was looking rather the worse for wear, and thought that this would be rather stronger," I added, knowing I was babbling but somehow feeling that I had to fill the conversational void with something for my plans seemed to be going rather awry. "You could always - "

"Watson." I stopped talking at the sound of his voice and realised that he was looking up at me, a curious expression upon his face. "I can't accept this. It must have cost you a fortune!"

I shrugged, and felt my shoulder twinge. "That is of no consequence. Do you like it?"

"Yes, very much, but - "

"That is all that matters to me."

"But _why_? Why did you do this?" He still sounded confused, which in turn puzzled me. One would think that no one had ever bought him a birthday gift before…I halted that thought as I remembered the lack of cards the previous year, the absence of familial contact which had prompted me to make this gesture. Was it possible that this was indeed the truth?

"Because I wanted to," I said simply. "I could not let such a day pass unmarked."

Holmes snorted and shook his head. "It always has done before."

Feeling now that I might have made a grave error in wishing to do something kind for a friend, I resumed my seat. Holmes turned the cigarette case over in his hands, head bowed, for some time. It was rare to see him so pensive when not engaged upon some investigation.

"Holmes," I said eventually, "Has no one ever done anything to mark your birthday before?"

After a moment he sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and sighed. "Not since I left home, no. To be honest, there was no one to mark the day but me, and I found that it became quite easy to forget about it altogether if I were to keep myself busy. After all, what is a birthday but another day of the year? It is a little difficult, not to mention somewhat pointless, to celebrate with oneself alone."

"I find that appalling," I told him, and he glanced at me, a funny little smile twitching one corner of his mouth.

"Yes, yes, I suppose you would. I can assure you that it made little difference to me."

He was trying to be cavalier, but I did not believe him, given the strange way he fidgeted in his seat, his fingers tapping upon the burnished surface of the silver case. He was not comfortable with the conversation at all, and I decided that if he did not want to talk then I did not wish to press it. I stayed silent, and at last he was able to meet my gaze with something of his usual insouciance. He looked at the cigarette case again, as if seeing it properly for the first time, and he stood up, crossing to my side.

"Thank you," he said, offering a hand which I took and which shook mine firmly. "I am really very touched, my dear fellow."

I nodded, and watched him as he went into his room and found his battered old leather case, the back of which was falling off. When he had transferred his cigarettes into the new and tucked it away in his coat pocket, I got to my feet. Wordlessly I fetched our hats and sticks from the hall and held his out to him. He frowned at me, and I almost chuckled at the knowledge that I had now perplexed Sherlock Holmes twice in one day.

"We are going out for dinner," I explained. "My treat."

His eyebrows shot upwards, and he shook his head. "No! No, no, no, Watson, I _cannot_ allow this! You have not the money – I absolutely forbid it!"

"I forbid you to forbid me to do anything," I retorted. "I want to."

Holmes stared at me helplessly. "But _why_?" he asked. It was a genuine question: he really did not understand.

I smiled. "Because you are my friend, and this is what friends do. We are friends, are we not?"

For a moment he just looked at me, and then an answering smile crept onto his face. He nodded. "But the expense - "

"Oh, don't worry, you can reciprocate on my birthday," I assured him seriously, and he threw his head back and laughed, the tension in the room evaporating.

When Mrs Hudson appeared with a birthday cake and candles a few minutes later, however, despite the mask he desperately tried to keep in place, he was blinking furiously and I could not be absolutely sure that I had not seen the first traces of tears in his eyes.


	24. Wee Willie Winkie

**WEE WILLIE WINKIE**

I awoke to the sound of running feet on the landing.

After so many years of sharing rooms with the world's only private consulting detective, I was already rolling out of bed and groping for my dressing gown before I was aware of it. Blindly I found my way to the door and threw it open to see lights shining up the staircase and the entrance to Holmes's chamber opposite my own standing wide open.

Below me, the noises which had disturbed my rest continued – raised voices, slammed doors and the high, keening wail of a woman in despair. Hurriedly I made my way down the broad stairs to the hall, the lights enabling me to orientate myself towards the library and the source of the commotion. As I reached the doorway I was almost bowled over by one of the young footmen flying from the room. He dashed off back the way I had come, urgency and panic evident in the tight lines of his body.

I crossed the threshold to find a disparate group of people gathered in the long room amongst the books and manuscripts. In a large armchair, his face a pale mask of shock, sat the duke. It appeared that the crisis had come just as he was about to retire, for he still wore his evening clothes though they were crumpled and dishevelled. Beside him and before the fireplace stood Lady Louisa, in her nightgown and with her shimmering hair loose about her shoulders, comforting the sobbing form of Mrs Banstead the housekeeper. An assorted gaggle of servants, all in various states of dress from their full uniform to clothes hurriedly dragged on when the alarm was raised, huddled in a corner, whispering amongst themselves and staring at the tableau at the other end of the room with wide eyes.

In the window embrasure, Holmes leant against the seat. To my surprise it appeared that he had also been roused from his bed for his dark hair was sleep-tumbled on his brow and he had pulled a blanket about his shoulders to ward off the very definite chill in the air. He met my questioning gaze and nodded towards the hearth.

Rounding the great mahogany desk, I caught my breath – sprawled upon his face on the rug was the unmistakable figure of Banstead the butler. From even a cursory glance it was obvious that he was dead: the back of his head had been all but smashed in, blood and brain matter staining the pale cloth beneath him in a brilliant semi-circular pattern of gore.

"If you would be so good, Watson," Holmes said, and once again I found myself examining a corpse for him. It was one of the less pleasant aspects of our partnership.

I could tell him little more than that which was immediately obvious: Banstead had been attacked from behind with a heavy object wielded with some considerable force. From the rigidity of the limbs, he had been dead about two hours. That would have put the time of the murder at just after one o'clock.

"But why?" demanded the duke when I reported my findings. "Why would anyone wish to kill a member of my household? What did they want?"

"They don't appear to have been burglars," said Lady Louisa, glancing about the room. "Is anything missing, Papa?"

"Not that I can see," he father replied, rising from his chair to do the same and falling back with a groan when he caught sight of the body on the rug once more.

"There is something," said Holmes. All eyes turned to him, and he slowly pointed above his head, to the left of the window. Beneath an unremarkable Dutch landscape was a faded square where something had hung for some considerable time but did so no longer. "That."

The duke blinked. "The Lely Duchess? But we have only just recovered her – why should someone return the painting only to steal it again?"

"That is what we have to determine." Holmes stood, and drew his lens from the pocket of his dressing gown. His grey eyes were sharp and keen, all trace of sleep now banished.

The room fell silent as he made a detailed investigation of its contents, even Mrs Banstead ceasing in her weeping for her dead husband to watch in bemusement as Holmes crawled around the floor with his nose barely an inch from its surface. He examined the desk, bookshelves and even climbed the library ladder with slippered feet to take a closer look at the tall windows. As I observed his familiar methods, it struck me that it was the first time I had ever seen the great detective conduct a case in his nightclothes.

* * *

**A/N:** _It is my intention to expand this one at some point - unfortunately the plot is being uncooperative._


	25. Fright Night

**Author's Note:** I lay no claim to the plot bunny which inspired this _Jotting_. It came entirely from one of our inestimable KCS's recent sentences, which once I'd read it refused to leave me alone!

Said sentence is: _'He should be used to Holmes's twisted humor by now, but when they are separated one foggy night while searching for clues in the small country graveyard, and something cold and clammy grabs his ankles, his embarrassment at screaming is (thankfully) covered by Holmes's howl of pain in receiving a boot to the face.'_

**

* * *

**

**FRIGHT NIGHT**

Sherlock Holmes glared up at me as well as he was able from just one eye. The other was practically swollen shut, surrounded by a rainbow of bruising which was just starting to show itself and stretched all the way down the left hand side of his face from his temple to his jaw. There was a cut along his cheekbone, at which I dabbed gently with an antiseptic swab.

"You have to admit that it was your own fault," I said, in answer to the venomous look.

There was a grunt in response. "I should by rights refuse to be treated by a man who reacts so violently to a simple joke."

"A joke? Holmes, sneaking up on someone in a graveyard at midnight is not a joke!" I exclaimed, recalling the icy fingers of terror which had run their way up my spine when I felt the cold, clammy hand snatch at my ankles. The fact that I had been standing near an open tomb awaiting a new burial had not helped matters.

Holmes shot me a sly glance, the effect of which was spoiled somewhat by the nature of his injuries. "My dear Watson, are you telling me that you really thought I was a ghost?" he asked with ill-concealed amusement.

"Of course not." In retaliation I touched the swab to the cut with rather more force than strictly necessary and tried not to smile when he yelped. "But you could have been anyone – an escaped convict, or a… an axe murderer!"

"Dear me." Holmes tsked. "You do read far too much lurid fiction."

"And you have a horribly macabre sense of humour," I retorted. "What did you expect me to do, taken unawares like that?"

He reached up a tentative hand to feel the area around his eye, and grimaced. "You might have at least lashed out with your fist," he complained. "I could have been blinded!"

"Hardly. _My_ boots do not have pointed toes." I finished my ministrations and began to clear away the blood-stained cotton wool. "Mrs Hudson is fetching some ice for those contusions. I did ask if she had any steak, but given the circumstances she said that she would not waste this evening's dinner on your misfortunes."

"How kind of her." Holmes slumped back against the cushions and let his good eye fall shut. He would look a sight come morning, even more than he already did, for the worst of the bruising had yet to come out. In the moment that I kicked out in panic as I was grabbed in the churchyard, I had no idea that my foot had come into contact with flesh and bone until I heard a howl of pain and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Horrified, I struck a match and stumbled through the long grass to find Holmes curled in a ball between the graves, moaning and clutching his cheek. Guilt consumed me for a second before I recalled the appalling shock he had given me mere moments earlier and I found myself alternately shouting at him and trying to pry his fingers away so that I could see the damage.

There was a knock at the sitting room door, and I crossed the room to admit our redoubtable landlady, who entered with a cloth-wrapped bundle and a disapproving expression. Catching sight of the muddy, dishevelled figure stretched out on the sofa, looking as though he had gone ten rounds in the ring with a heavyweight, she glanced at me and rolled her eyes heavenward before announcing, "_Ice_, Mr Holmes."

Holmes's eyes opened to painful slits and he reached out to take the proffered cloth. A gasp escaped him as the cold compress touched his battered face, and then he relaxed, the soothing properties of the ice beginning to take effect. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he mumbled from behind the bundle.

She nodded. "Maybe that will teach you to think twice before playing foolish pranks," she said loftily. "Honestly – grown men behaving like schoolboys!"

With that pronouncement hanging in the air, she sailed from the room, the door banging shut behind her. I closed the clasps of my medical bag with a snap and stowed it away beneath my desk. Pouring a glass of water from the carafe on the sideboard, I emptied a packet of painkiller into the liquid and handed it to Holmes, who accepted it gratefully.

"Your prognosis, Doctor?" he asked indistinctly when he had drained the glass.

"I think you'll live," I said. "I missed your nose and the zygomatic is undamaged. You're going to look rather unattractive for the next few days, though. Shall we say you walked into a door?"

He groaned. "Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you in a brawl."

"I will. And I will also give you a piece of advice," I added as I helped him up from the sofa and steered him towards his bedroom.

As he fell heavily onto the bed he tried to raise an questioning eyebrow, but the attempt caused him to wince and he gave up, laying his throbbing head down upon the pillow. "What is it?"

"Don't sneak up on a war veteran who is still rather jumpy," I said, rummaging through his wardrobe for a clean nightshirt. "You're lucky I wasn't armed."

There was a pause, before Holmes's unscathed eye widened and he nodded hurriedly in agreement.


	26. Such A Perfect Day

**Author's Note:** I've just had a rotten week...

**

* * *

**

**SUCH A PERFECT DAY**

I was halfway through the troublesome final draft of my record of the Bulstrode murder case when I heard the front door slam, heralding Holmes's return.

The day had so far not been an auspicious one, with my friend departing the house before I came down to breakfast. The sound of an altercation between Holmes and Mrs Hudson had come drifting up the stairs while I was dressing, but I had no idea of the cause until I entered the sitting room, smelt burning of a chemical rather than organic nature and saw the large acid hole in the carpet which had not been there upon my retiring the night before. Our landlady appeared soon afterwards bearing my kippers and toast, and treated me as an accompaniment to a tirade upon the subject of my fellow lodger's eccentricity and carelessness. Though I could not entirely disagree with her grievances, I later spied traces of blood in Holmes's bedroom basin and guessed that the accident had not been without injury to himself as well as the carpet.

Left to my own devices, I cannot truly say that the next few hours were completely successful. With the intention of spending my time in writing, I duly settled myself at my desk only to find that my concentration was continually interrupted by the raucous singing of the builders working on Camden House across the street. Several times during the course of the day did I throw down my pen in frustration and surge to my feet with the intention of storming over there to complain, only to have the noise cease the moment my ire was raised to the required pitch. Calming down in the ensuing silence, I wrote steadily for ten minutes before the next off-key serenade began once again.

As if this were not enough, just before five I was visited by a patient who objected in the strongest terms to my daring to send him a second bill when he refused to pay the first. So incensed was he at my apparent presumption and so violent did his manner become that I was goaded to responding in kind, and was only prevented from dealing the man a sharp right hook (which would have neatly solved the problem but done nothing to encourage him to pay his bill, nor enhance my professional reputation) by the timely arrival of Mrs Hudson and a broom, with which she drove him from the house. Shocked by such treatment from a lady and his ears ringing with her vociferous threats to call the police, the fellow was quite chastened by the time he reached the street and almost ran towards Regent's Park, promising over his shoulder to settle the account within twenty-four hours.

I had, therefore, been able to concentrate upon my work for perhaps half an hour altogether before Holmes returned. By that time the day was almost entirely written off as a disaster and I had made the decision to abandon my manuscript for the more enticing prospect of a drink and my pipe. I was putting away my papers when, immediately after my friend's entry to the house, I was startled by a loud crash and a yell from downstairs. This was followed by a strange high-pitched yapping and a shriek of alarm from Mrs Hudson. By the time the good lady called my name I was already halfway to the door, my reflexes moving my legs before I had any conscious thought of doing so.

I descended the stairs to find Holmes in a groaning heap at the bottom, one hand pressed to his nose, while Mrs Hudson stood by holding a squirming bundle of hair and teeth which tried to leap from her arms the moment I appeared upon the scene.

"What on earth has happened?" I demanded, reaching the crumpled form of the world's only consulting detective and helping him to sit up.

"It was an attack, Watson!" Holmes mumbled through his fingers, glaring at our landlady. "A deliberate, vicious attack by that… that beast!"

"Beast?" I echoed, looking around and able only to see Mrs Hudson and her curious burden. "Which beast?"

"Mr Holmes wasn't looking where he was going when he came into the hall," Mrs Hudson said, trying to comfort the wriggling creature in her arms. It gave a very menacing growl, teeth bared, and I found myself flinching even though I was too far away to be in any danger. "He tripped right over poor little Hamish!"

"Poor little Hamish tried to sink his teeth into my ankle!" Holmes snapped. From the tone of his voice and the way he was protecting his face, I diagnosed a possible fracture of the nose. He had probably gone face-first into the banisters while trying to extricate himself from the jaws of what I finally realised was a very bad-tempered Highland terrier. I managed to haul him to his feet, and caught hold of his arm as he nearly toppled over again. "What the devil is that infernal creature doing in the house?"

Evidently disliking my friend's disparaging description of him, Hamish gave an angry bark and made a concerted effort to escape from Mrs Hudson and hurl himself at Holmes. Thankfully, our landlady was able to restrain the animal, and fell to stroking and cooing to him as though he were a baby. An uglier and more disagreeable child I could not imagine. "I agreed to look after him for Mrs Astley at number 225 while she visits her granddaughter," she said. "I would have told you this morning, Mr Holmes, had you not taken it upon yourself to destroy the house again. You should be more careful – look, you frightened the life out of the dear little man!"

A growl which would more than give that of Hamish a run for its money came from behind Holmes's hand, and he would have argued over who was to blame, but as he took a step forward his left leg crumpled under him and I had to grab him around the waist to stop him hitting the floor again. He gave a sharp cry of pain, and his fingers flew from his face to catch hold of the banister for support. His features thus revealed, I could clearly see a bruise forming across his cheek, and the bridge of his nose was already swelling.

"I think perhaps you had better take Hamish somewhere a little less dangerous, Mrs Hudson," I told her, slinging Holmes's arm over my shoulders and starting to half walk, half drag him up the stairs. It was clear that if he were allowed to get anywhere near the dog, Hamish would find himself the subject of Holmes's next experiment.

We made it to the sitting room and I dropped Holmes into his armchair before fetching my bag and starting to patch him up. His ankle was fortunately only slightly sprained – his nose appeared to have taken the brunt of the impact with the stairs. He yelled when I shifted it back into place.

"What a day, Watson, what a day!" he exclaimed half an hour later when he was settled with his dressing gown on and his foot elevated on the stool from his chemical bench. I handed him a glass of whisky and took my own seat on the opposite side of the fireplace. "I do not believe that anything has gone right. The spilt acid this morning was not even the beginning." He ticked off the incidents on his long fingers as he spoke. "My razor was blunt and I cut myself shaving more than once; Lestrade called on me for assistance with a 'complicated case' an intelligent child could have solved and my tailor mixed up the measurements for my new suit so that the sleeves were six inches too long and the trousers looked as though they had shrunk in the wash. Then there was the broken E string on the Stradivarius which I could not replace because the shop was closed, and I do not even need to mention my altercation with that little monster of Mrs Hudson's, which just put the crown on the most perfect ten hours known to man! "

"It hasn't exactly been plain sailing for me, either," I said, and when he gave me a quizzical look told him about the builders and my belligerent patient.

"_Dies Horribilus*_," he muttered, and arched an eyebrow at me over his glass.

I couldn't help but laugh at that and, when we heard a muted yap from downstairs, so did he.

* * *

* _Bastardised Latin for 'horrible day'_.


	27. Say It With Flowers

**SAY IT WITH FLOWERS**

"Holmes?"

Even from my room up on the second floor I could tell it was he who had closed the front door with such force and then hurried up the stairs. His footsteps paused on the landing below and so I called his name again; a moment later he appeared upon the threshold, still wearing his hat and coat and – bizarrely – brandishing a huge bouquet of flowers.

"What is it?" he asked, sharp eyes running anxiously over my bedridden form. "Do you need something? Are you having a relapse?"

I could not help laughing, much to his consternation. For the last three days I had been trying to convince him that I was merely suffering from a heavy cold and was not in any danger of expiring in the near future. Sceptical, he spent so much of his time hovering around me that in the end I was forced to send him away lest he drive me mad. Holmes hated anyone fussing over him, but when the positions were reversed and I was the one laid up he was worse than the most suffocating mother hen. Today, however, he had been conspicuous by his absence.

"I'm fine, really," I told him. "I didn't mean to startle you; I was just feeling a little lonely. It's rather isolated up here and I've not seen a soul all afternoon. Where have you been?"

"Out," he said, throwing his hat onto the bed and sitting down beside it, narrowly avoiding my feet. "I thought it best to make myself scarce under the circumstances."

"Surely you didn't take my banishing you from my bedside yesterday _that_ seriously?" I gestured to the flowers he was still holding and added with a mischievous smile, "It's a nice idea, old man, but you didn't need to go to all that trouble. A bag of grapes would have sufficed."

Holmes blinked at me, uncomprehending, before his face cleared and he glanced down at the elaborate bouquet. "These aren't for you. I bought them as a peace-offering for Mrs Hudson. She is rather…irked with me."

"Ah. I did notice she was somewhat out of sorts when she brought up my luncheon. What did you do this time? You can't have blown up the sitting room, for I would have heard the explosion and probably be sitting in the kitchen by now without needing to take the stairs."

A pained expression crossed Holmes's face, and he didn't respond to my joking. "It was nothing to do with the house this time."

"Not the garden." I felt my face fall. "Oh, Holmes, you _didn't_…"

"How was I to know a simple experiment would have that effect?" he demanded, his voice rising an octave as he straightened defensively. "It was merely a little compound introduced to the soil – I wanted to record its actions when combined with organic tissue."

Quite suddenly I could feel my face growing hot, as though my fever was returning - my recovery seemed to be going into reverse. I could not leave the unemployed Holmes alone for five minutes without him wreaking some havoc or other upon the household, and it appeared that now he was spreading the chaos he created into the outside world. "Could you not have taken a sample of the soil and conducted your experiments upon that instead?" I asked him plaintively. "The garden is Mrs Hudson's pride and joy – she has put hours of work into it!"

"Do you think I don't know that?" he shot back at me.

"How much of it did you destroy?"

Holmes shifted uncomfortably under my stern gaze, like a naughty schoolboy before the headmaster. "About…seventy-two percent."

"Good grief." I sagged limply against the pillows, in my mind's eye seeing Mrs Hudson even now writing out an eviction order. She had put up with much from Holmes over the years, from his setting fire to the carpet, to the patriotic VR in revolver bullets which decorated the sitting room wall, but this was surely the last straw.

"I hope you don't think I did it on purpose," he said when I was silent for some minutes.

"I don't know what to think," I said, finding a handkerchief under the bedclothes and using it to mop my brow. As I did I looked at the bouquet he had laid down on the coverlet and continued, "No, actually, I do. I think that buying Mrs Hudson flowers by way of apology is rather tactless, Holmes. Don't you?"

He picked up the bouquet, which from the look of what appeared to be a yard and a half of ribbon decorating it must have been expensive, and frowned at it. "You have always led me to believe that women like this sort of thing."

"I doubt any woman would be appreciative of such a gift when the man who bought it had just destroyed three quarters of their beloved garden," I pointed out, marvelling yet again at the complete ignorance of the greatest brain in England when it came to the subject of the fair sex.

"Then what do you suggest?" he asked. "You have far greater experience with the irrational creatures than I."

"My advice," I said, "would be to find out which plants it was that you killed and replace them, preferably with your own hands. You will probably need to order some bags of topsoil as well, since you have apparently contaminated most of that which was already there. When you have the garden at least partly returned to its former glory, Mrs Hudson just _might_ start to forgive you."

"Watson!" Holmes stared at me, horrified. "Do not forget that reprehensible list you made when we first took rooms together. There was a very good reason you rated my knowledge of practical gardening as 'nil'!"

"Well, then," I said, turning over and pulling the covers up to my shoulders, forcing him to get to his feet. "Now will be the perfect time for you to learn, will it not?"


	28. Whoops! Here Comes A Whizz Bang

**WHOOPS! HERE COMES A WHIZZ BANG**

"Watson, look out!"

I spun, my hand going for my revolver, only to see Hawkins breaking free of the two constables holding him. With a roar he threw himself towards me – before I could even register that I needed to move, Holmes had barrelled into me, sending us both to the floor just as the knife Lestrade's men had failed to confiscate thudded into the beam where my head had been moments before. I heard the inspector bellowing, followed by booted feet pounding on the floorboards; when I raised my head saw that Hawkins had been wrestled to the ground by at least six burly policemen. Lestrade, face puce with rage, was berating the officers who had let the smuggler escape.

Holmes straightened and sat back on his heels, allowing me to sit up. It took me a minute or two to catch my breath, for hitting the floor with his weight on top of me had quite forced all the air from my lungs.

"Are you all right, old man?" he asked, running a concerned eye over my dishevelled person.

"Quite, thank you," I wheezed. "That was very close!"

"Sorry, Doctor, he got away from them," Lestrade said as he joined us. "I'll see that Goodwin and Ball are disciplined, don't you worry." Glancing over his shoulder he called to his men, "All right – take him away!"

"You'll be sorry for this!" Hawkins yelled as he was hauled bodily towards the stairs. "You ain't heard the last of me, Mr Holmes!"

"I don't doubt it," Holmes replied laconically. "We have the trial to come, after all. I believe I shall enjoy watching a judge make you squirm."

"Get him out of here, Jenkins," said Lestrade as Hawkins let fly a torrent of abuse in Holmes's direction. It was an incredibly colourful and creative stream of invective, and we could still hear his shouts bouncing from the walls as he disappeared from view towards the waiting police wagon. The little inspector turned back to us, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "Well, that's another case satisfactorily concluded, eh, Mr Holmes?"

"A tolerable result, Lestrade," Holmes agreed, taking a seat on a nearby packing case and reaching inside his coat for his cigarette case. He tapped one out on the lid and slipped the end between his lips. "Have you his accomplices?"

"Sergeant Chapman is rounding them up as we speak. We should have the whole gang under lock and key by morning."

"Excellent." Holmes lit his cigarette and tossed the match over his shoulder. "I believe we can leave it to you and your men to take things from here. Home, Watson?"

I slumped with relief. "I thought you'd never ask, Holmes."

Lestrade followed us as we made our way towards the stairs. "You'll come down to the Yard to tie up the loose ends?"

Holmes assured him that we would be there as soon as we had had a decent night's sleep. Lestrade responded to this remark with his typical annoyance, informing the detective that none of his men would be getting more than an hour or two in bed by the time they had dealt with the formalities, but I was not really listening. I could quite suddenly smell burning, and not that of Holmes's tobacco. I sniffed the air, trying to discern from which direction the smell was coming.

My friend watched me in some amusement. "Hungry, old man?"

I shook my head, explaining what I was doing. Lestrade followed my example and breathed in. "I can smell it too." He glanced around us and a moment later his eyes widened. "It's coming from over there!"

"Good God!" I exclaimed as I realised he was pointing towards the packing cases we had just left. Smoke was rising from the back of the pile, just behind that upon which Holmes had been sitting. It was plain in that moment that his discarded match had not been completely extinguished. "Lestrade, exactly what was Hawkins smuggling?"

The inspector paled. "Chinese fireworks…"

Holmes and I stared at each other, both opening our mouths, me to chastise him and he to argue, but before either of us could speak there was a huge bang from across the room and we were racing for cover, Lestrade's shout of "Everybody down!" in our ears. We made it to the stairs and all but fell down them as more and more of the cases took fire and disgorged their squealing, popping, sparking and fizzing contents around the room above us. I glanced up as Holmes pulled me towards the warehouse door to see brilliant flashes of colour from above, almost blinding in their intensity.

Outside, in the darkness of the small hours it was worse, a rainbow of light shooting up into the night sky, illuminating the dockland for some considerable distance. I jumped as a rocket screamed its way overhead to explode in a beautiful shower of golden rain. More and more of them followed, and we found ourselves watching with ill-disguised appreciation even as we heard the bells of the fire brigade announcing their presence.

I am ashamed to say that Holmes and I slipped away as Lestrade argued with the fire chief over what had happened. It was too dangerous for his men to enter the building with so many fireworks running amok inside, and so I believe it took some two hours for the conflagration to be brought under control. The next morning the newspapers were full of speculation as to how it could have happened, and we received a telegram at half past six from a very irate inspector declaring his intention to prosecute Holmes for causing a breach of the peace and endangering police personnel.

"It _was_ your fault," I told him over the meagre breakfast Mrs Hudson provided as revenge for being woken so early by Lestrade's messenger. "You should be more careful – we could have been killed, not to mention the fact that the fire destroyed all the evidence against Hawkins."

"That was not his only offence, merely the crime which gave us the opportunity to catch him red-handed," Holmes replied. "There is enough still in existence to hang him twice over."

"Even so, I hope you will make sure you extinguish all matches in future."

He placed a hand over his heart and closed his eyes, intoning, "But, of course, Watson. May I be torn apart by wild horses should I fail to do so."

I snorted and turned my attention to my toast.

"Anyway," Holmes added, folding the _Morning Chronicle_ and sliding it across the table towards me, "It appears that you and Lestrade appear to be the only ones to pass censure on my conduct. You will see from the papers that everyone else seems to have felt that my mistake produced the best Guy Fawkes Night the capital has ever seen."


	29. Cabin Fever

**CABIN FEVER**

"Watson, this is intolerable!" Sherlock Holmes exclaimed, flinging the blind back into place and turning from the window in disgust.

I sighed inwardly and tried not to grimace as I sipped my black coffee. It was nearly five days since we had first been confined to the house by a prolonged snowfall, and the strain was beginning to show in my friend. Unable to pass the front door without taking a shovel to the drift which had blown up to it (and unfortunately said tool was in the garden shed, out of reach due to a similar occurrence at the back of the house), we were running low on fresh food, there had been no milk delivered since Friday and Holmes was almost climbing the walls because of his enforced inactivity.

"There is nothing you can do about it, old man, so you may as well sit down and finish your breakfast," I said, nudging his plate towards him. We had been through this performance every morning since he descended the stairs, hot on the scent of a housebreaker, only to find that he could not pass the threshold. He ignored the unappealing offering of scrambled eggs and the last of the black pudding and went to the fireplace to recharge his pipe.

"Five days," he announced, more for dramatic effect than for my benefit I was sure, for I was well aware how long we had been trapped inside. With Holmes prowling the sitting room like a caged beast, those hours had seemed more like months. "Five days caught between these four walls. It is more than flesh and blood can stand!"

"I can always return to my room if you would prefer to have these four walls to yourself," I told him, laying aside my napkin.

He flapped a hand at me, which I interpreted as a 'don't be so ridiculous', and returned to drumming his fingers on the mantel. I was well aware that the reason for his foul mood was more complicated than the simple fact of our incarceration within the house. As we had been unable to go out, so those familiar, daily services upon which we depended had been unable to get in. The last post was delivered on Friday afternoon, and I had not seen a newspaper since the previous morning – the lack of information was wearing upon Holmes's nerves. He could not bear to be left in ignorance regarding the comings and goings of the metropolis, to have his finger forcibly removed from the pulse of criminal investigation.

Nothing more was said until Mrs Hudson arrived to collect the breakfast things. She rolled her eyes at Holmes's untouched plate and I made an apologetic face.

"I know that we should not be wasting food," I said quietly.

Our landlady sighed. "Not to worry, sir, I'll put it in the soup."

I brightened, for the prospect of a warming, hearty luncheon was something to look forward to. "I had no idea you were making soup, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, I've had a pot boiling down there for days," she replied. "All of Mr Holmes's leftovers are going into it. I thought I might call it 'Mystery Broth' – he can amuse himself trying to deduce the ingredients."

I hid my smile with my hand, glancing at Holmes. He was smoking furiously – if he did not begin to ration his consumption then his tobacco would run out sooner rather than later. When it did he would begin chain-smoking his cigarettes, and when he had no more of _them_…I had no wish to share the room with a Sherlock Holmes who was not only bored and frustrated but also suffering from nicotine withdrawal. "I think he may be in need of the distraction if we are all trapped in here for much longer," I said.

Mrs Hudson gave a very unladylike snort. "Just like a fractious toddler," she announced, loud enough for Holmes to hear. "I've seen five year olds more able to entertain themselves than some in this room."

Unfortunately, the world's only private consulting detective was too caught up in his own inability to work to pay any attention to her and so our landlady picked up her tray and sailed from the room, telling me to be careful with the coal for we were running low and she had no idea when the coalman might put in an appearance. I promised we would and shut the door behind her, turning to my friend.

"Are you going to spend another day feeling sorry for yourself?" I enquired. "You are not the only one who is being denied the necessities of your life, you know. How am I to make a living if I cannot get to my patients?"

Holmes started at my tone, but quickly recovered himself and swung round to face me. He exhaled smoke through his nose like an irritable dragon and said, "Do forgive me, Doctor – I had thought that you were relishing being snowed in. I do believe you termed it 'quite romantic'."

"That was before I spent eighty hours trapped in here with you. Honestly, Holmes, you would try the patience of a saint at times!"

He bristled at that, but instead of the sharp response I was expecting he sighed and sank down into his chair. "Quite so," he said, discarding his pipe upon the table at his elbow. "You have no idea, Watson, how it feels for one who has the city running through his veins; who relies upon action, incident, occurrence, for his very lifeblood, to be cut off from the outside world like this. In five days _anything_ could have happened, and I would be incomplete ignorance!"

"If we are cut off, then there is a high probability that the rest of London is, too," I pointed out. "I doubt if anything of momentous importance has occurred. However, we _are_ trapped, so we just have to make the best of it."

"So easy to say," he muttered, as morose now as he had been furious a few minutes ago. Though such activities were beginning to pall upon me, I at least could lose myself in a good book, or concentrate upon finishing my latest story for _The Strand._ Holmes did not have hobbies, regarding any activity which had no definite purpose, or which did not mean the satisfactory resolution of some problem to be of no practical use. The sole exception to this view was his violin, but as the instrument was currently having its bridge altered there could be no recourse to music to soothe my friend's savage breast. In earlier days he would have submitted to the lure of the cocaine bottle, but no longer had such recourse and I was grateful for the drug's continued absence from our lives.

"Why do we not play a game?" I suggested, clutching at straws in my determination to distract him from his increasingly dark mood.

He looked at me without enthusiasm. "Chess? I will only beat you four times out of five and where is the amusement in that?"

"Something else, then."

"Do not suggest Patience, Watson, for I have none," Holmes said in a warning tone as my eye alighted upon the pack of cards I had left lying on my desk.

I scanned the room, desperately trying to think of something, and then I suddenly recalled Mrs Hudson's words before she left: _I've seen five year olds more able to entertain themselves than some in this room._ A lamp ignited in my brain, and I smiled. "Actually, I have an idea…"

***

I believe that, two hours later, no one wished for a thaw more fervently than our long-suffering landlady when she came upstairs to ask whether we were ready for our luncheon to find me counting to a hundred on the landing and Holmes trying to squeeze himself into the linen cupboard…


	30. Face The Music

**Author's Note:**_ Mary's appearance in my recent fic _The Hand of Friendship_ went down so well that I was tempted to use her again. This fragment follows on from that story. :)_

**

* * *

**

**FACE THE MUSIC**

"It's a present," my wife explained, after I had entered the house to the accompaniment of a somewhat out of tune rendition of Handel's _See The Conquering Hero._

"Is it indeed?" I put down my bag, regarding the rather battered upright piano which had apparently taken up residence in our parlour during my absence on my rounds. It had quite obviously been well loved by its previous owner, but its defects could doubtless be put right with a lick or two of paint and judicious application of a tuning fork.

For a moment I wondered where on earth it could have come from (one could not, after all, send a piano via the penny post), before my eye fell on the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes, who stood in the window embrasure examining his nails as though he had no connection whatever with the musical instrument which had invaded my home.

My friend had been staying with Mary and I for the past week in an attempt to shake off the depression into which he had sunk following a dearth of new cases to test his formidable mind. Though Mrs Hudson tried her hardest to help, I had decided that it would be best for all concerned if Holmes had a complete break and so brought him – somewhat reluctantly - to Paddington with me for something of a rest cure. Thankfully by now the clouds were beginning to lift, and he was feeling much more himself. Unfortunately, it was quite obvious to one who knew him well that he found negotiating the ups and downs of life with a married couple confusing, though he would of course strenuously deny it if asked. He was wary of my wife to begin with, distrustful of women as a whole and unused to daily contact with the fair sex on such a level, but Mary persevered in her intention to befriend him and I was happy to note that she managed to charm the great detective with as much ease as she did everyone who crossed her path. By Wednesday Holmes was taking an interest in my patients as they came to the front door, watching and deducing from a prime vantage point at the window of the guest bedroom; by Friday evening he had evidently found in Mary a willing and able pupil and I found myself being called upon after dinner to confirm or deny the information they had gleaned between them, much to their combined amusement.

I turned to Holmes now. He appeared a little uncomfortable under my scrutiny, which, had I not seen him trying to adapt to his new status as a guest in my home for the past few days, I would have thought a little odd. "I take it this has something to do with you, old man?" I enquired.

Holmes opened his mouth to reply but Mary interrupted before he could speak.

"Now, don't be sharp with Mr Holmes, John," she said quickly. "He wanted to help me – we were talking about music and I mentioned that I had had no opportunity to play since the position I had before I went to Mrs Forrester's. Do you remember that I told you she had no instrument for they were all of them tone deaf? I - "

Holmes was watching me during this swift speech, and I could see his eyebrow arching, his mouth twitching slightly. It was plain he had seen through the stern aspect I was trying to project – he always did claim I was a hopeless actor. "I would not be too concerned, Mrs Watson," he said, "I am well acquainted with your husband's 'bull-pup', and I believe we are safe for it is not currently straining at the leash."

Mary frowned, and then a smile broke across her face. She came and threw her arms around my neck, swatting me lightly on the ear. "Don't you like the piano?" she asked when she had told me what a rotten man I was for trying to pull her leg.

"It's not that I don't like it," I said, running my gaze over the instrument again and noting that it took up nearly half the space in the little room. "It's just that it's rather…large."

"Oh, don't worry about that," my wife replied, adding firmly, "I can easily rearrange the room to accommodate it. All we need to do is sand it down a little, give it some fresh paint and employ the services of a piano tuner and it will be as good as new. We can push it into the corner and it will be quite out of the way. It still has a fine sound – you can hear that easily. Are we to keep it?"

I hesitated for a moment, both her eyes and Holmes's on me like those of two children who imagined they were about to be denied a treat, and smiled. "Yes, very well."

Mary laughed and kissed me on the nose.

***

An hour or two later I ventured out into the chilly garden to find Holmes sitting on the low wall smoking a cigarette in the gathering dusk.

"Mary doesn't mind if you smoke that indoors, you know," I said as I crossed the sparse, dead lawn and sat down beside him.

He exhaled through his nose like a contented dragon and shook his head. "I should not wish to force her into opening a window. The temperature is dropping rather swiftly."

"All the more reason for you to come inside," I countered, and he chuckled. We sat in companionable silence for a while until I said, "Mary is thrilled with the piano."

"I am glad. As a fellow musician I could not allow talent to stagnate. From our discussions on the subject I believe your wife is also proficient upon the violin – who knows, she might have been harbouring designs upon my Stradivarius."

I smiled. "Perish the thought. But where the devil did you get it?" I asked after another pause, during which we watched a robin hopping about in the holly bush at the end of the garden.

Holmes stubbed out the remains of his cigarette on the wall and stretched out his long legs. As I watched him bury his hands in his coat pockets I began to wish that I had not ventured outside in just my jacket. I stuffed my chilled hands under my armpits in an attempt to warm them. "I called in a favour," he said. "A past client of mine repairs and refurbishes musical instruments – I waived his fee on the understanding that he would assist me in the future should I require it. Purely by chance, he happened to have exactly what I was looking for in his workshop. He will come and tune the beast tomorrow."

"Well, thank you again. I cannot help but ask why you made such a gesture, though, Holmes. It is - "

"Unlike me?" he enquired, raising an eyebrow a fraction.

"I did not say that."

He shrugged. "You may as well have done, and you would be right."

"Then why - ?"

My friend looked down at his feet for some time, and I realised that for once he was not quite sure what to say. Eventually, after careful consideration, he replied, "As I have remarked in the past, crime is commonplace, logic is rare. So too is kindness. Do you understand, my dear fellow?"

I considered for a few moments, and then I nodded, for I did understand. Only Sherlock Holmes would make a grand gesture instead of saying two little words. In the end I said them for him:

"Thank you, Holmes."


	31. Bedtime Stories

**Author's Note:** _Goodness, my muse has been AWOL for four months! No idea where it got this offering of fluff from, but enjoy! :)_

* * *

**BEDTIME STORIES**

"Holmes, this can't go on," I said.

He hunched over in his chair, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders and deliberately turning his back on me. "It doesn't concern you, Watson."

Usually when he effectively told me to mind my own business I would do so, but I could not ignore the five days he had now gone without sleep. When working on a case Holmes would stay awake far longer than any human being should ever do, concentrating his powers and extraordinary faculties on the problem in hand and almost always to the detriment of his health. It was not, however, normal for him to be sleepless like this when unemployed. After nearly a week of listening to him pacing the sitting room in the small hours and coming down to breakfast to find him sitting in the chair in which I had left him the night before I could not help but be worried.

"It _does_ concern me," I told him now, "both as your friend and your doctor. This is not healthy, Holmes!"

A thin hand waved dismissively. "Go away and tend to your real patients, doctor. They have more need of you than I."

I folded my arms, biting my lip as I considered my next move. It would be easy to back down, allow him to control the situation as he wished, but I did not relish having to pick up the pieces when the inevitable happened. Decision made, I took a different tack. "Suppose a client should walk through that door now," I said. "Exactly how much use do you think you will be to them in your condition? As soon as you rose from your chair you would collapse on the carpet."

"That is your professional opinion, I take it?" Holmes's voice was clipped, a warning to proceed no further down that particular route.

I ignored it. There were times when I could have cheerfully strangled the man, so stubborn was he. His masterful nature would allow him to relinquish control to no one until circumstances made it completely unavoidable. Upon the subject of his health he would dig in his heels and refuse to admit that there was anything wrong until his beleaguered body decided to prove otherwise. I had lost count long ago of the occasions upon which I had been called to assist him after his iron constitution had been pushed beyond its (admittedly exceptional) limits.

Despite my immediate desire to snatch up a heavy book and beat him about the head with it, I remained calm. "If you insist upon putting this conversation on such a formal footing, then yes, it is," I said. "And any other doctor within ten miles would agree with me!"

"Ha!" Holmes threw back his head with a bark of humourless laughter. A moment later he was out of his chair with a speed I had not thought it possible for him to possess in his doubtless exhausted state. He took a swift circuit of the room and came to rest before me with arms spread wide and a triumphant smile upon his lips. "Well, doctor? Would you care to revise your opinion?"

I looked up at him, and at close quarters there was no mistaking the pinched features and extreme pallor of one on the verge of fainting. The circles beneath his hooded eyes were inky black, the eyes themselves rimmed with red. He swayed gently, though was quite plainly trying to hide it, and his outstretched hands were almost imperceptibly shaking. When I had taken all this in, I said, "No, I would not. And I suggest you sit down before you fall down."

Holmes scowled at me. "Nonsense! I am - " He broke off as all of a sudden his eyes seemed to lose focus and he wobbled on his feet. I jumped to catch him as he slid towards the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

"_Now_ will you listen to me?" I asked as I guided him to the sofa and helped him to stretch out there amongst the cushions. "You must rest!"

He moaned and shook his head as I unfolded a blanket over him. "Can't. Brain...won't let me."

I sighed. Many was the time I had suffered sleeplessness in the middle of the night because my mind had caught hold of something trivial and would not let it go. For hours it seemed I had fought fruitlessly with snatches of poetry or popular song which seemed to replay themselves in my head on a perpetual loop. Goodness knew what a similar affliction must have been like for Holmes with all of the information tucked away in his 'brain attic'.

Whatever the cause, I had to relax him enough to get him to fall asleep naturally. A sleeping powder would have been the obvious solution, but it would just be the start of a destructive cycle if Holmes came to rely on medication in order to rest. Given his previous addiction to narcotics, I would prefer to leave such a course of action as a last resort. Instead, I went downstairs to find Mrs Hudson, leaving Holmes with strict instructions not to move from the sofa in my absence.

Our landlady was not surprised when she learned of her principal tenant's malady, as she too had heard him moving about the house at night. She immediately set a pan on the stove to heat some milk, and then bustled about the kitchen hunting out extra ingredients for the warm drink I had requested. When her preparations were complete and the resulting concoction poured into a cup, she withdrew a small, slim book from her apron pocket, which she pressed into my hand.

"Mrs Hudson, whatever is this?" I asked, looking at it in mild confusion.

She smiled. "My niece's youngest can never go to sleep without a few pages before bedtime," she said. "I thought it might work on Mr Holmes."

Privately I doubted that, as Holmes was not a six year old boy even though he sometimes behaved like one, but I carried the book upstairs with me, reflecting that anything was worth a try. To my surprise Holmes had obeyed me, and lay still on the sofa, his eyes closed and his hands folded upon his waistcoat. Any hopes I may have had that Morpheus had claimed him while I was in the kitchen were dashed when he cracked open one eye and looked askance at the steaming cup I held.

"Milk sops?" he enquired, arching an eyebrow.

"Something to help you sleep," I said, handing it to him and adding in a threatening tone, "_Drink it_."

With a long-suffering sigh he did so. I busied myself with pulling the curtains to dim the late afternoon sunlight – when I was done I settled myself in my armchair, opening Mrs Hudson's book. Holmes laid aside the cup with an expression of distaste and fixed his gimlet gaze upon me. His mouth twitched in amusement.

"Really, Watson, I sincerely hope you are not intending to read me a bedtime story."

"I am indeed," I replied seriously.

He stared at me, obviously affronted. "I am _not_ a child!" he declared.

"Perhaps not, but it is a well-known fact that a soothing voice can aid relaxation. Lie down and shut your eyes and just _listen_," I said.

"This is an utterly ridiculous notion," Holmes muttered, but did as he was told.

I cleared my throat, smoothed down the first page, and began, "_Once_ _upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were: Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, and Peter_."

The detective snorted. "Good gracious, whatever next?"

"Holmes, be quiet," I ordered. _"__They lived with their Mother in a sandbank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree. _

'_Now, my dears,' said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, 'you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden - your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.'_

'_Now run along, and don't get into mischief. I am going out.'_

_Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella and went through the wood to the baker's. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns_."

My friend did not interrupt again. I glanced over at him to see that his eyes were closed, his face slack and his hands loose upon his chest. I hope that Miss Potter will not take it amiss, or as a criticism of her work, if I inform the reader that before I had reached a third of the way through _The Tale of Peter Rabbit and Mr McGregor_, Sherlock Holmes was fast asleep.

* * *

**Author's Second Note:** The Tale of Peter Rabbit _was written by Beatrix Potter and first published in 1901. Text found online at best -childrens -books. com/the -tale- of- peter- rabbit_


	32. Brotherly Love

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

"It's all right, old fellow, just a little further, hold on..."

I had been repeating the words all the way up the stairs like an Eastern mantra, as much to reassure myself as to give comfort to my friend. He gasped with pain at every jolt, every step with which he was forced to drag his battered body upwards. We stopped for a moment on the landing so that he could regain his breath and marshal what remained of his strength for the final stretch – as we turned the corner to my surprise the sitting room door flew open and light spilled over the threshold.

"Sherlock?" called a voice both at once familiar and unexpected. A large figure was silhouetted in the doorway, his bulk taking up most of the space. I could not restrain a cry of surprise – I might have expected Mrs Hudson to be waiting up for us, but I certainly had not thought to see Mycroft Holmes in our rooms, especially at such an advanced hour. Holmes had told me more than once that his brother hated any deviation from his established routine; being away from his Pall Mall lodgings, and in the middle of the night to boot, was virtually unheard of.

Holmes raised his head with an effort and blinked at his elder sibling. "Mycroft?" he managed to croak before he stumbled and almost all his weight fell heavily onto my shoulder. It was all I could do to stop myself collapsing beneath it, my own game leg giving way, but I somehow remained standing, tightening my arm about his waist and pulling him upright. He groaned as the movement jolted his arm, his head lolling against my neck.

Mycroft was not slow witted for all his great bulk, and he was at his brother's side almost immediately, watery grey gaze taking in the bruised and bloodied detective. Holmes was still wrapped in the rough police-issue blanket, which hid the worst of his injuries, but his right arm hung limp at his side and he cried out as Mycroft began to slowly draw it over his shoulder.

"Careful!" I said quickly, "It's dislocated."

The big man had paled at the sight of his younger brother, and, if possible, became even whiter at my pronouncement. Wordlessly he took my place at Sherlock's left hand side and all but carried him into the sitting room, laying him down carefully on the sofa. By the time I retrieved my medical bag from my room he had slipped a cushion under Holmes's head and removed the blanket – it was clear that he could not help but stare in horrified fascination at the misshapen lump beneath the black coat that should have been his brother's shoulder. Holmes was still conscious, but his eyes were screwed up in pain, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts through his nose. I located a pair of scissors in my bag and began to snip through the fabric of his sleeve – I needed to give him some morphine if I was to reset the bones, but getting him out of the coat without causing him further discomfort would be impossible. Mrs Hudson, roused from sleep by the raised voices above her, appeared and was swiftly sent for hot water and linen.

Mycroft watched me work for a few moments before he said, "What happened, Doctor? It should have been a routine investigation. I would never have sent Sherlock if I thought that - "

"He fell out of a window," I replied as the right side of Holmes's coat fell away. I unfastened his cufflink and rolled up the shirt sleeve beneath, turning back to my bag for a syringe.

"A window?" Mycroft's eyebrows shot up. "How the devil did he manage that?"

"Your damnable papers," Holmes hissed through clenched teeth as I found a vein and inserted the needle.

"One of the gang thought to retrieve them," I explained. "He and Holmes grappled – I could see them getting too close to the window but was too far away to do anything. Before I could reach them their momentum had taken them over the sill and through the glass." I did not add the terror I had felt when I looked down, expecting to see two bodies on the gravel below. Barely had I registered that only one lay there, his head at an unnatural angle, before my attention was drawn to something beneath the level of the window sill. I dared to pull my gaze from the dead man on the ground and saw in amazement the white-faced, shaking figure of Sherlock Holmes hanging there, clinging onto the ivy which covered the building with one hand and scrabbling at the ledge with the other, the papers still in his grasp. With the assistance of Lestrade and his men I got him back into the room, only to find that the fall had cost him dearly – his right arm had been ripped from its socket as he caught the plant, his plummeting weight, suddenly brought up short, dislocating the joint. Though I tried to persuade him the folly of such an action he refused to go to the hospital, insisting I took him home. Mycroft's agent, now in possession of the disputed papers, must have contacted his superior about the accident. I confess I had not expected the elder Holmes to dash across town to his brother's side in the small hours – I had always been led to believe that they were not particularly close.

"Good God," Mycroft said as I finished my preparations. He sat down heavily in my armchair and pulled a huge paisley handkerchief from his pocket, using it to mop his brow. "Good God."

Holmes had opened his eyes, the morphine already bringing him some small measure of relief, and he raised his head a fraction to observe his sibling. "Don't look so scared, Mycroft. I live to fight another day."

"You very nearly didn't," Mycroft snapped. "How can you be so casual about it? This is that damned oak tree in the garden all over again. You thought you could climb to the top, that you wouldn't fall! Dear Lord, when you hit the ground I thought you were dead – you just laughed when you opened your eyes, until the pain hit and you realised you'd broken your arm!"

"It is not the same at all. Injuries are an occupational hazard in my line of work."

"The for the sake of everyone's sanity may I suggest you find yourself a less dangerous profession!"

Such was the heat behind Mycroft's words that even Holmes looked surprised. "Brother mine, I never knew you cared," he said in wonder.

The elder Holmes snorted. "Someone has to, since you apparently have no concern for your own safety."

I decided it was time to intervene, before Holmes made the waspish comment that I could tell from his expression was on his lips. "I need to reset the joint," I said, and both brothers looked at me. "It will hurt, Holmes, even with the morphine, but if I don't you might never use that arm again."

He wearily laid his head back on the cushion. "Do whatever you must."

I glanced at Mycroft and he nodded. Between us we raised Holmes until he was sitting upright. I slid behind him, holding him against my body for support, and gently took hold of his right arm. He flinched, showing me that I was right in my diagnosis – the small dose of morphine I had injected had numbed the edges, but any movement of the limb was still extremely painful. Holmes had studied anatomy, and he evidently knew what I was about to do for his breathing quickened.

"Are you ready?" I asked. I received a terse nod in reply, which I interpreted as 'Get on with it!'. I tightened my hold on his arm, holding him still with my other hand. Mycroft hovered behind, ready to provide assistance should I need it. "Very well. On the count of three, then. One...two..._three_!" I gripped Holmes's injured arm and pushed it quickly upwards, gritting my teeth against the horrendous cracking and grating of the bones as they slid reluctantly back into place. I heard Mycroft's exclamation of shock as a howl was ripped from his brother's throat; the shoulder slotted back into its socket and Holmes turned wave cap white, his eyes rolling up into his head. He slumped against me, mercifully unconscious at last.

I laid him back down on the sofa, turning to Mycroft, who was visibly shaking. It was quite obvious that such injuries were not commonplace within his sheltered Whitehall existence. "Was that really necessary?" he asked.

"It was the only way," I told him firmly. "If the joint remained dislocated he would have been crippled for life. In truth, I could have administered stronger pain relief but..."

He noticed my reluctance to finish the sentence. "His recreational use of such drugs renders the dose required too hazardous. Oh, yes, I know about Sherlock's little habits, Doctor," he added, my surprised expression evidently a question in itself. "I deplore them, but there is no use my berating him for his weaknesses. He would take no notice of me if I did."

There was little I could say in reply, so instead I went to the sideboard and poured him a large whisky. While he was drinking it, I fetched Holmes's nightshirt from his room and the two of us stripped him of his ruined clothes and tended to his other injuries. He had been hit by flying glass when the window shattered and there were any number of small cuts over his face and hands. The bruising over his shoulder was quite spectacular, and would be for some time until the injury healed. I bound it up and immobilised his arm in a sling – he would chafe against the restriction but it was imperative that the joint and ligaments be allowed to heal properly. Eventually he was tucked up in bed, carried there by Mycroft, who was apparently as strong as he was large, and I could at last sit down myself.

I took my habitual seat at his bedside almost without thinking. A moment later I became aware of a presence at my side and Mycroft pushed a glass into my hand. "I think you could use a drink too, Doctor," he said, and I could not deny that he was right. Now that the adrenalin was leaving me I was beginning to feel shaky and a little sick – if I closed my eyes I could see again the awful moment when Holmes went over the edge. For a moment he hung in empty space, before his own weight and that of his assailant combined carried them out into the night. I shook my head, trying to banish the memory.

When I opened my eyes it was to see Mycroft bent over the bed, one flipper-like hand brushing over his brother's dark hair. Sherlock did not even move, shock having finally overtaken him. The elder Holmes touched two fingers to his throat as if to make sure for himself that the pulse there was strong, and then straightened, turning to me.

"I should be going," he announced. "My landlady will be wondering what has become of me."

I started to scramble to my feet, but he motioned me to stay where I was. "Thank you for coming tonight," I said, and meant it. "I am very grateful for your assistance."

"Think nothing of it, Doctor. He _is_ my brother, when all is said and done, even if he is headstrong and foolish. I am glad that he has someone upon whom he can rely, for he will take no favours or support from me. Had you not been there in that house with him - " Mycroft shut his eyes briefly and shuddered. "Well, I do not like to think what might have happened. He will not thank me for saying so, but he needs you, Watson, more than he probably realises."

This little speech took me be surprise, I must confess. "Don't worry, Mr Holmes," I said, "I have no intention of abandoning him."

"Good. Well, I must be off. No, don't get up, Doctor, I can see myself out." He moved through to the sitting room, gathering up his coat and hat. Briefly he paused on the threshold. "Do let me know if Sherlock becomes difficult during his recuperation – if necessary I shall come and knock some sense into him. Such an action is long overdue. Goodnight."

And then he was gone, the door quietly clicking closed behind him. I shook my head and glanced at my patient, who was sleeping peacefully. Checking that his pulse and breathing were normal, I settled myself in my chair for a familiar vigil.

I had known for some years that I would never get the measure of Holmes - on the evidence of the past couple of hours it seemed his brother was also full of surprises.


	33. I Wouldn't Normally Do This Kind of Thin

**Author's Note:**_ After the angst of the last couple of chapters, here's some silliness. :) The title is from the song of the same name by the Pet Shop Boys._

**I WOULDN'T NORMALLY DO THIS KIND OF THING**

Having been tramping around in the cold and the wet all day engaged upon house calls, I was relieved to finally be able to ascend the stairs and removed my damp overcoat, looking forward to half an hour beside the fire with my evening newspaper and a warming drink before dinner. With this aim in mind, I opened the sitting room door only to stop short upon the threshold at the unexpected sight within.

Sherlock Holmes stood with his back to me, in a circle made by pushing back the furniture as far as it would go. His arms were held at odd angles in mid-air, as though he were a wax tableau or a performer awaiting his cue, and I could just make out a pamphlet of some kind held in his outstretched hand. After a moment, trying to identify the strange noise that was just on the edge of my hearing, I became aware that he was humming. It was a vaguely familiar tune, but just then I could not for the life of me identify it. Suffice to say, it was not a piece of music with which I would normally associate my friend.

These things, had they occurred randomly, would have been unusual to say the least, but grouped together in this way they became downright odd. Holmes appeared to have no notion of my presence, and so I tentatively cleared my throat to announce my arrival. The effect was alarming to say the least: the detective leapt like a scalded cat and spun around to face me, flinging as he did so the papers he held onto his already cluttered desk. Much to my amazement, he was blushing furiously.

"Watson, must you creep up on people?" he demanded, his voice high and frantic.

"I'm sorry, old man, but I did tell you I would be back around now," I said, and peered at him in some concern for it seemed he might be sickening for something. "Are you quite all right?"

"Perfectly well," he replied quickly, and then coughed, his tone when he continued having lowered an octave, "Perfectly well, thank you."

Curious, but not wishing to embarrass him further, I looked about for my armchair. Finding it in the doorway to Holmes's bedroom, I set about drawing it back to its customary position on the left hand side of the fireplace and sat down, unfolding my newspaper. As I ran an eye over the domestic reports, I was peripherally aware of my friend pacing about the room. The scrape of a match told me that he had lit up a cigarette, and I glanced from the corner of my eye to see him perched upon the window sill, gazing out at the dismal evening. Though I wanted to ask him what on earth he had been doing when I entered, I knew better than to press him for explanations. He would tell me in his own time if he felt I needed to know, and I had seen enough peculiar things over the years to be able to bear my own curiosity a little longer.

Eventually, as I had reached an article on the current state of the Poor Laws, he leapt up, striding across the open space in the middle of the floor. He stood there for a moment, one hand in his pocket and his left foot tapping upon the worn carpet, before he said,

"Watson, do you know how to waltz?"

I looked up in surprise, for whatever I had been expecting him to say it was certainly not that. "Yes," I replied, frowning. "Why do you ask?"

Holmes looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I find I have need of the ability. For a case," he added swiftly before I could speak. "I must learn the steps and make a decent fist of it by tomorrow if I am to retain the co-operation of a certain young lady."

"Holmes, I hope this is not co-operation of the same kind as that you obtained from Milverton's housemaid," I said in a warning tone, remembering what had come of that association.

He threw back his head and barked a laugh. "No! No, my dear fellow, nothing like that, I promise. But I have been invited to a ball and..."

"You do not know how to dance."

"I do not know how to _waltz_," he corrected. "I have been attempting to learn, but it is a little difficult to master alone."

"So _that's_ what you were doing when I came in!" I exclaimed, the pieces at last fitting together in my mind. Holmes had been attempting to teach himself the steps of the dance from a magazine.

He bristled. "I had thought you engaged elsewhere until six o'clock at least."

"It is a quarter past," I pointed out, and added, "It's all right, old man, no need to be embarrassed. We all have to start somewhere."

"Do you mean..." Holmes's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you offering to teach me?"

"Can you think of anyone else to ask? I doubt if you could obtain a lesson with a dancing master before tomorrow evening. I am a little rusty, I will admit, but if you need to learn quickly..."

"Yes, yes, it is an excellent suggestion," he interrupted, no doubt afraid that if he were churlish I might change my mind. He stood, expectantly, in the middle of the floor, and I realised that he evidently wished the lesson to begin immediately. I groaned inwardly and hauled myself up from my chair.

"I think it might be best if you extinguished your cigarette," I told him, "I doubt if the lady you wish to impress will appreciate a singed ball gown."

"I am not of a mind to impress anyone, Watson," he snapped, impaling me with a grey glare when I shot him a mischievous smile. "Had I not needed the information she holds in order to trap a thief I would never have begun this charade."

"Of course, of course," I said, attempting to school my features into some semblance of solemnity and failing miserably. "Well, for a start you will have to put your arm around me, old chap."

He looked horrified. "Must I? Is there no way one can learn...at a distance?"

"Not if you wish to do it properly." I took hold of his hand and placed it lightly in the small of my back. Holmes was trying not to recoil at this unwanted intimacy, I knew, and so I caught hold of his free hand, lacing my fingers through his and trying not to feel ridiculous. "Now, just do as I tell you. On my count: one, two three..."

* * *

"Watson, do move your feet out of the way!" Holmes cried half an hour later.

"My feet are not _in_ the way," I opined, "it is you who cannot count! Honestly, Holmes, you are a musician – it should be child's play for you to follow a simple rhythm!"

He scowled at me. "It would appear to me that you and I are dancing to two completely different tunes, doctor!"

"It would be easier with accompaniment," I admitted.

"Unfortunately, I have only one pair of hands and cannot dance and play at the same time," Holmes said, quite obviously annoyed. I yelped as he stepped on my foot again - whether from accident or design I couldn't tell – only to receive a growl in response.

We were still stumbling around the sitting room with all the grace of a couple of dancing bears when there was a knock upon the door and Mrs Hudson appeared to enquire if we were ready for our dinner. She stared at us for a long moment, eyes wide, before her mouth twitched and it became quite obvious that she was trying very hard not to laugh. I could not blame her for we must have presented a quite ludicrous sight.

"Lord have mercy, whatever are you doing?" she asked.

Holmes muttered something under his breath and stalked to the mantelpiece to fill his pipe. It therefore fell to me to explain. When I had, our landlady folded her hands before her and look us both up and down.

"Well," she said, "I can't say I would have agreed to dance with either of you, had I seen that little display before being asked."

"Do you know how to waltz, then, Mrs Hudson?" I could not help asking.

"That I do, sir. Oh, I haven't always been renting rooms to eccentric consulting detectives," she added with a knowing glance at Holmes's back. He ignored her, puffing away like an old steam engine as was his wont. "I was rather a good dancer in my day. Of course, back then the waltz was still considered a little scandalous. It wasn't _quite_ the done thing."

"Mrs Hudson, you never cease to surprise me," I said, and she smiled, a twinkle in her eye. An idea came to me. "I fear I make a poor lady for Holmes to practise with, despite my efforts. Do you suppose you might be willing to assist in this instance?"

Mrs Hudson looked at her irascible tenant. "Is it important?"

"The fate of a long and, until now, happy marriage may depend upon it," Holmes said without turning round. "The lady – my client – is quite desperate."

"I think she must be." There was a long pause following that statement. Then Mrs Hudson gave a long-suffering sigh. "Oh, very well. Doctor, you can keep time. Come here, Mr Holmes."

He came reluctantly to take the hand she held out to him. I tried not to smile, for they did make a rather ill-matched couple, Holmes being the taller by a good ten inches.

"Now," said Mrs Hudson, "do as I tell you, concentrate on the steps, and if you break any of my toes you can get your own dinner for a fortnight."

The detective nodded, turning his eyes to me for assistance, but I just shrugged, not willing for a moment to rescue him, and the lesson began.

* * *

After ten minutes I found myself helping our poor landlady hobble down the stairs, promising that we would organise our own meals for an unspecified length of time while our pupil sat glowering in his armchair behind a veil of blue smoke.

In one respect, if not others, Mrs Hudson and I were in complete agreement: no matter how elegant and graceful Sherlock Holmes might appear to be, when it came to dancing he very definitely had two left feet.


	34. Remember, Remember the Fifth of November

**REMEMBER, REMEMBER THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER**

"Mr 'Olmes! Mr 'Olmes!"

We were almost at our door when we heard the small voice calling. Holmes turned from trying to extricate his keys from his pocket to find two of his Irregulars at his elbow, both looking at him expectantly. I noticed that one of them – Ben, the smaller in an oversized cap and what looked like his brother's boots – was holding a knotted piece of string which was attached to a makeshift trolley.

Holmes had of course seen this and more, and he frowned. As far as I knew he had not set the boys upon any trail at present and it was unlike them to be hanging around Baker Street with no work to do. "What can I do for you, boys?" he enquired.

Charlie, the elder of the two, had removed his cap and was twisting it nervously between his thin hands. "Um...penny for the Guy, Mr 'Olmes?"

"Guy?" Holmes raised an eyebrow and peered round the children at the rickety cart they were pulling behind them. Upon closer inspection I could see that it had been cobbled together from an old apple crate and a couple of ancient and rusting perambulator wheels. On it sat a vaguely human figure made out of flour sacks and assorted discarded clothing, listing alarmingly to one side as though it had been drinking heavily. A crude cardboard sign was slung around its neck, the scrawl upon it in pencil reading _Gi Forks_.

"There's a prize," Ben piped up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Charlie tried to shush him but he took no notice. "Fer the best Guy, I mean. It's fer the – fer the bonfire, the one in the park on Friday!"

"I see." The detective slowly ran a critical eye over their creation, and I felt quite sorry for them when he said, "And you hope to win with that, do you?"

Their little faces fell, and Charlie flushed. "We didn't 'ave too much to use, only a few things me mam could spare," he said defensively, adding, "It's better than what Wiggins 'as got! 'Is don't even 'ave an 'ead!"

"I think it's a very good effort," I said, and found two pennies in my pocket which I handed to the boys. Their eyes lit up and they thanked me profusely as Holmes raised his voice slightly to speak over them.

"Indeed," he remarked, "but it is not, I think, a winning entry. Success in such a contest requires individuality, don't you agree, Doctor?"

I shrugged. "If you say so, Holmes."

"What does that mean?" Ben asked, confused by the long words.

"It means, young man, that if you wish to win you will need some assistance," Holmes told him, producing his house keys and proceeding to unlock the front door. He ushered the boys inside, much to their delight, and called to me over his shoulder, "Watson, do bring the guy."

Charlie popped his head round the doorframe. "And the trolley, Doctor – if we leave it out 'ere someone'll 'ave me wheels off!"

I sighed, and heaved the flour sacks into my arms. "And I thought this was such a nice neighbourhood..."

* * *

With an effort, I managed to manoeuvre the cart into the house, where it sat just inside the door waiting to trip unwary visitors.

Mrs Hudson was not best pleased to have such a ramshackle contraption littering her hall, but her manner softened when I explained its purpose.

"It will need some better clothes," she said, examining the boys' handiwork in much the same way as Holmes had. She regarded it thoughtfully for some moments before nodding. "I have that old suit you gave me for the jumble sale - I was going to patch the holes in the knees but it will do quite well for this. I'll go and find it."

As she bustled off I hauled the Guy up the stairs and dumped it with some satisfaction in Holmes's armchair. It sat there, slumped, the straw with which it had been inexpertly stuffed leaking out of the holey shirt and trousers it wore. I couldn't help agreeing with Holmes that it needed some work – a Guy was usually a representation of someone recognisable but this one resembled nothing so much as an inebriated tramp. For some minutes I stood pondering the problem while Ben and Charlie perched nervously on the sofa watching me.

Eventually Mrs Hudson appeared with the battered tweed suit I had abandoned after ruining the knees when I fell into a ditch on a night time chase across the Derbyshire moors. To my surprise, she also brought with her a heavy but irreparably stained greatcoat and a collar and tie. "Donations," she explained, smiling when she noticed my puzzled frown, "I think this is as good a cause as any."

As well as the clothes there was a pot of tea for Holmes and I and biscuits for the boys, who fell upon them eagerly. As they ate, stuffing a handful into their pockets for later, Holmes appeared from his room, where he had been noisily rummaging through drawers and cupboards. He carried a disreputable brown bowler and a pair of boots which had seen better days and also a small hinged box which when he opened it revealed a theatrical make-up kit. Untying the string which attached the head of the Guy to its body, he took the stuffed sack over to his desk and set to work with pencils and brushes. With the help of Mrs Hudson and the children I dressed the dummy in my old suit, removing some of the stuffing upon Holmes's instructions.

By the time we had finished the Guy looked much more presentable, if a little under-nourished. Holmes turned from his work to bestow his approval upon our efforts.

"Excellent. Now we just need to add the finishing touch." Carefully he placed the head back on the body and tied it tight. As he set the hat, the brim padded out with yesterday's _Times_, upon it I could not help but feel that I was reminded of someone. Holmes had painted a face on the formerly blank sack, a thin, suspicious face which looked very familiar, the little black eyes peering out from beneath the slightly too big bowler and the mouth twisted in annoyance. I glanced at him and he smiled mischievously but said nothing.

"Cor, Mr 'Olmes, that's grand, that is," Charlie announced, and Ben nodded enthusiastically. "'E looks like a right toff!"

"In that case, you had best win and make sure he fulfils his ultimate destiny," said Holmes. He found a half crown in his pocket and flipped it to them. Ben caught it, much to Charlie's annoyance, and quickly squirreled it away. They both chorused their thanks, but the detective merely waved a dismissive hand. "No, no, no. Off with you now!"

Mrs Hudson accompanied the boys down the stairs, fending off their excited chatter. Amused, I went to the window to watch them emerge into the street, trolley and Guy in tow. It was then that I realised exactly who it was I was reminded of by the dummy's new features.

"Holmes," I said, as he packed and lit his pipe, "Am I right in thinking that the face of that Guy was in actual fact a portrait of someone we know?"

He puffed at the old briar, surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke, and lifted his brows innocently. "You may think that, Watson, but I couldn't possibly comment."

* * *

And he stood by those words. Over the next three days he refused to be drawn upon the subject, despite my attempts to satisfy my curiosity. He would say nothing even when the boys' Guy was deemed worthy of a spot on the huge bonfire on the fifth of November.

However, my suspicions were confirmed early on Saturday morning when an enraged Inspector Lestrade arrived at our door, demanding to know why he had apparently been burned in effigy in Regent's Park the night before...


	35. The Father of the Man

**Author's Note:** Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews - I'm glad you're all still enjoying these!

* * *

**THE FATHER OF THE MAN**

Sherlock Holmes's cousin Cressida was a formidable woman.

In character she appeared most of all to have succeeded the family matriarch, the late Great Aunt Sophronia, to whom it appeared all had been forced – however reluctantly - to bend their will. Though he had never said so, I gathered that both Holmes and his brother Mycroft had been drawn to London as much to escape their relatives as to advance their respective careers, and in this they had done spectacularly well, avoiding contact with their family for more than two decades.

Recently, however, there had been a sea change in this attitude, marked by Cressida's desire for Holmes's assistance in a case and the enthusiasm of her children in continuing the connection once they discovered their 'Cousin Sherlock' to be the celebrated consulting detective. Age had certainly begun to mellow my friend, and I could not help but wonder whether he was in some measure grateful to have family around him once more. An independent soul, he had been quite happy to pass through life alone, with no emotional ties, for some years but I flatter myself that my own influence may have had its effect upon him, even though I know that he will never admit as much.

And so it was that in the opening years of the twentieth century we found ourselves irregularly invited to the house in Harrow which was home to Cressida and her husband Colonel Cunningham. I always enjoyed my visits, despite the ubiquitous bickering between the cousins (Holmes and Cressida were of too similar a temperament to rub along amicably for long, and neither one of them could be said to suffer fools gladly), for I always discovered something new about my old friend and companion. Holmes has never been forthcoming about his formative years, waiting a decade before he mentioned to me the existence of his brother, but within the environment of Cressida's home he could not hope to remain reticent upon the subject.

I presently stood in the entrance hall of that fascinating house, gazing upwards at a painting I could not recall having seen before. Colonel Cunningham I knew had next to no interest in art unless it was a depiction of some great military victory or a portrait of a favourite pet, and I had noticed in Cressida a ruthless aversion to sentiment and artificial beauty which rivalled that of Holmes himself - if a picture had no aesthetic merit or purpose beyond filling an empty space on a wall it would receive very short shrift. She kept portraits of family members, including the much-mentioned Aunt Sophronia herself, who glared balefully at visitors, gimlet-eyed and swathed in widow's weeds, but there was no room in her home for so-called 'fancy pictures' which is why I was so surprised to see that the new addition to the staircase wall was a glossy, sugary depiction of two children in a sylvan glade.

It was a skilful rendering, in the style of more than forty years before, reminiscent of the society portraits by Winterhalter and his ilk. The youngsters were ruddy-cheeked and healthy, their hair glossy and their eyes shining; the elder, a slightly heavy, round-faced boy whose sleek black locks were neatly parted and his sailor suit immaculate, sat beneath a spreading oak tree, an open book upon his knee while his sister, all frothy muslin and pale golden curls, flung chubby arms about the neck of an enormous Newfoundland dog. They looked happy, and quite contented, if a little distant – each was absorbed in their own pursuits, almost ignoring the other within the confines of the gilded frame. I supposed, after ruminating upon this irregularity for a few moments, that such detachment was probably not unusual within the Holmes family. There was no doubt that the portrait originated there, for I could not mistake the sharpness visible even in the childish features and the penetrating gaze which met my own from the painted surface could only belong to Cressida herself. It would appear that her piercing eyes had not gained their ice-blue shade until later in life for the shading in the picture made them seem almost grey. I wondered about the identity of her studious companion.

So wrapped up was I in my contemplation that I did not hear footsteps upon the parquet floor until they were right behind me.

"Watson, what the devil have you been doing?" Holmes demanded, not bothering to conceal his annoyance at being left to make small talk with his cousin. I had, after all, excused myself merely for five minutes.

I apologised, adding, "I could not help taking a look at this painting – I presume Mrs Cunningham has recently acquired it."

"Unlikely. She is not known as a connoisseur of art. Unless a canvas is of a horse or one of her brats she will – _Good God_." To my surprise he sounded quite shocked – I turned to see him staring at the portrait in something akin to horror. His mouth opened and closed twice before he said, "Where in the world did she get _that_?"

"You have seen it before?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I was promised it had been burnt." Holmes gave a shudder of revulsion. "A sickly, saccharine abomination."

"Oh, come on, old man, it's not _that_ bad," I said, feeling myself obliged to step in to defend the artist. "A touch sentimental, perhaps, but attractive. Especially the little girl."

My friend made a peculiar strangled noise. He opened his mouth again but before he could speak his cousin's voice rang out from the drawing room doorway.

"Indeed, Doctor Watson. Everyone always maintained that Sherlock was a particularly pretty child." She glided across the hall to join us and threw him an amused glance. "I cannot think what went wrong."

I could not help it: I gaped. As Holmes, quite clearly furious, directed a glare at Cressida which would have felled a woman of less confidence at twenty paces, I turned my attention back to the canvas. Of course, upon closer examination I could discern the watery grey gaze and fleshy countenance to come of Mycroft Holmes in the features of the boy reclining beneath the tree. My eyes were drawn, however, to the child embracing the dog – he could not have been more than two or three, still in petticoats as was usual at the time, but the longer I regarded the cherubic painted face the more I found to my amazement that I recognised my friend in the set of the mouth and chin, the shape of the eyes and the uncanny directness of their stare beneath the halo of spun gold which would soon begin to darken.

"My goodness," was all I could find to say.

"Quite," agreed Holmes pithily. He turned to his cousin, who was smiling as much as she ever did. "Where did you get it? Mycroft told me it had been destroyed!"

"Aunt Sophronia, of course," Cressida replied. "You know she would never have allowed anyone to rid her of something potentially embarrassing or incriminating. Wolfram told me she hung it in the dining room, just in case you ever decided to accept one of her invitations."

"I feel obliged to refer you to the old adage of Hell freezing over. Did she give it to you?"

"It came to me with all her other effects after she died. The house was finally cleared last month and the contents – such as there were – sent to auction. I decided to keep this, both from some misplaced concern about its impact upon your career and also an overwhelming desire to see your face when you beheld it after all this time. I am glad I did, for your expression was a picture in itself."

Holmes's smile was thin. "Thank you, cousin. Your delicacy is appreciated."

"It is an impressive painting," I offered, rather lamely.

Cressida regarded the portrait, arms folded, with a critical eye and a disapproving frown. "Rather overblown, in my view, but then that's what was fashionable. Highly sentimental and somewhat cloying in the manner of that dreadful Millais advertisement of the child blowing bubbles."

"Very true," said Holmes, coming to stand next to her. Presented with their profiles, it was quite clear how I had come to mistake him for his cousin – though Cressida's features were softened by femininity and other familial inheritance, they were very alike. "However, one can forgive a mother for a certain amount of sentimentality regarding her own children."

I blinked in surprise. "Holmes, do you mean that your mother - "

"Aunt Lucille was a talented artist," Cressida said. "I still have the portrait she painted of my first pony. Mirabelle, her name was."

Holmes snorted. "Art in the blood, Watson," he told me. "My mother inherited her artistic temperament from her Vernet relatives. Unfortunately she was never able to make as much use of her abilities as she would have liked."

There was a sudden silence between us following this pronouncement, during which I caught him gazing at the picture with quite a different expression upon his face. Instead of the loathing I had seen upon his first glimpse of the work, there was something that could almost be considered tenderness, but it was gone so swiftly I could not be sure. It would seem that Cressida had seen it too, for she asked, quite gently,

"Do you still wish me to burn it, Sherlock?"

He cleared his throat, straightened, and then shook his head. "Such a reaction may be a little precipitate," he said, and then added as we made our way back to the comfort of the drawing room, "But for goodness's sake hide it in a dark room somewhere. I have my reputation to maintain, after all."

Cressida laughed, a noise disturbingly like the braying of a donkey, and I could not help but smile myself, grateful for the fact that in her presence I learned more about Sherlock Holmes than twenty years of friendship could ever teach me.


	36. All Is Well

**Author's Note:**_ The morning after The Empty House. Because I don't believe Watson wasn't angry._

_

* * *

_

**ALL IS WELL**

"Of course," he said, finishing his cigarette and tossing the stub into the fireplace, "You will wish to move back as soon as possible. We will put your practice on the market; a full partner will naturally have little time for patients."

I struggled to comprehend his words, feeling as though my brain had conjured them from nowhere despite having plainly seen his lips move. Quite suddenly it seemed as though the room were closing in around me; events were running ahead, out of my control. _Much as they used to_, a little voice inside me said, but I was no longer used to such things. My world, slow, mundane and grey though it might be, could not just be pushed aside.

"No," I head myself say.

Holmes stopped in his tracks on his way to the door to call for Mrs Hudson and turned, blinking at me in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"No," I said again. "I am not willing to take such a step. Not yet."

"But, Watson, I am back – you have no need now of a separate establishment, a...a..." He appeared to stumble for the correct word and I supplied it for him.

"A life? A life outside of yours, do you mean?" I could hear the bitterness in my voice, and though I did not like it, did not want it to be there, nevertheless there it was. And there was anger with it. "Holmes, I have not been in a box for the last three years, sitting behind glass awaiting your return. For God's sake, man, I thought you were dead! I _mourned_ you, grieved for you like a brother. My life changed, it _had_ to change because I had no choice. While you were gallivanting around the world, I was still here, living, _existing_ because it was all I knew how to do!"

Holmes's grey eyes narrowed and his mouth became a thin line. "I was not gallivanting, Watson. Do you not think that I would have returned earlier if I could, if I had not thought it would put you in danger - "

"Oh spare me the tales, Holmes," I snapped. "If Moran had found me such a threat he could easily have finished me off months ago. Or even yesterday outside the court."

"Moran only ignored you because he knew that you believed me to be dead. If he had thought you possessed but an inkling of my presence in London your life would not have been worth - "

"Have you ever lost anyone close to you, Holmes? A friend, perhaps?" I asked, cutting across him because I just could not stand to hear any more. Now that the adrenalin from the previous day's adventures had left my system my nerves felt stretched like the strings of a badly-tuned violin and I could not take any more stories.

He looked startled by the question, and swung away from me, towards the fireplace. His voice was even when he replied, but I did not miss his hesitation. "No."

"A relative, then?" I knew nothing of his family beyond his brother Mycroft – it struck me that I had no idea whether his parents were still alive, possibly buried somewhere on a country estate, wrapped in stultifying boredom that their sons had run to London to escape.

There was a long pause, during which I was presented with my friend's back, hollow beneath the familiar mouse-coloured fabric of his favourite dressing gown. Eventually he spoke, and his words were so soft that I almost missed them. "My mother," he said, and I felt a little of my anger dissipate.

"Were you close to her?"

"I adored her." He gave me a fleeting glance over his shoulder, and I could not fail to see the pain in his eyes. It was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, locked away behind his usual mask of indifference, but I had been allowed to discover its existence. "She died of consumption when I was barely ten years old."

I was reluctant now to drag up unpleasant memories, but if we were to return to something of our old relationship I had to make him understand what his disappearance had done to me. "Do you recall how you felt?" I asked him.

Holmes moved to the window, the blackened old clay pipe he had picked up still in his hand. The long fingers of the other toyed with the fringe of the blind as he said, "I can remember feeling numb, cold. For weeks I couldn't even cry and I thought there must be something wrong with me for who does not weep when he has lost his mother? I knew that my father thought me unnatural – he locked himself away in his study and would see no one; when he did finally emerge his eyes were red and bloodshot and for a time he no longer looked like the father I knew. Still I could not cry. I asked Mycroft if he thought I had done something terrible, so terrible that God would not allow me to weep – he told me that I was being ridiculous. And then... then it hit me. Grief crashed down upon me with all the force of that raging torrent in Switzerland. I felt as though I had been stabbed in the gut." He shot me a look from the corner of his eye, as if to ascertain that I was still listening, but did not turn his head. "The pain was so acute that I cut myself off from all around me – I never wanted to feel such agony again."

This time it was my turn to be silent. Holmes continued to stare out of the window, as though after such a confession he could not bring himself to look at me. At last, when I had carefully considered my words, I said,

"When I discovered your note at the Reichenbach Falls, I experienced that pain. In those first few moments I almost threw myself into the abyss after you." Holmes turned slightly, eyebrows raised in surprise, but said nothing and so I continued, "You are the best friend I have ever had, and I have spent the last three years trying to come to terms with your loss. My life lost all colour, almost all meaning. At times I thought I would go mad, expecting to hear your voice, to see you walk through that door. I even woke in the middle of the night, thinking I had heard violin music – I even came down here, thinking you had come back. It took a long time, and I had to leave Baker Street and my memories behind to do it, but eventually I accepted your death. I started my life again.

"And now, here you are, as if nothing had happened. Do the years I have lived since we last met mean nothing? Are you really so surprised at my anger, at my uncertainty? I went through the hell of bereavement, and for what? So you could play some great game?"

"Watson - " Holmes began, but I held up a hand to forestall him, determined to finish that which I had begun.

"You cannot expect everything to just fall back into place, Holmes," I told him, "Neither of us are the men we were three years ago. Too much has happened to us both. And those years cannot be wiped away, made to vanish with a flick of the wrist. Tell me truly: how would you have felt had your beloved mother returned to you some time after her death and explained that she had not thought it prudent to inform you of her continued existence?"

Holmes sighed, and glanced down at the pipe in his hand. "You feel betrayed."

"Should I not? How am I supposed to feel when I know that you told your brother and kept me in the dark?" I became aware that I was gripping the back of the chair I leant upon for support too tightly. Exhaling, I forced myself to let go.

"Oh, Watson. Believe me, had the choice been so simple I would have revealed my masquerade to you in a heartbeat. But I could not put your life in danger, not to save my own skin. Perhaps it was selfish of me, but I had to see it through to the end." He discarded the pipe at last, and rounded the table to lay a hand on my shoulder. "I would never have willingly caused you such pain, my friend."

I laid my hand over his and gave it a brief squeeze. "I know."

Holmes, never comfortable with physical contact, withdrew, moving back towards the hearth. He pulled his dressing gown closer about his spare frame in an almost protective gesture. "_Will_ you stay?" he enquired, his tone almost, but not quite, casual.

I did my best to match it. "Yes."

A smile quirked the corner of his mouth, and he curled up in his armchair, feet tucked beneath him in that eastern manner that had always been his wont, even before his travels. "Then do be a good fellow and ring for breakfast. I find that all this excitement has given me an appetite."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Not before time, Holmes," I said, reaching for the bell, "Not before time.

"Welcome home."


End file.
